


It Might As Well Be Spring

by vidnyia



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: 70s AU, Alternate Universe, It's set in england but that's never really specified, Jazz - Freeform, Jean plays the saxophone, M/M, Music, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 100,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22175764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vidnyia/pseuds/vidnyia
Summary: When moving across the country to the house he inherited from his deceased grandfather, Armin expects to find the same old boring grey he grew up surrounded by. Before long, he meets Jean Kirstein, the leader of the jazz band that used to rehearse in his grandfather's cellar - and suddenly, there's colour in his life. [70s AU]
Relationships: Armin Arlert/Jean Kirstein, side Reiner Braun/Bertolt Hoover
Comments: 162
Kudos: 399





	1. Chapter 1

From the outside, it looked like any other townhouse. It was squeezed in between two identical concrete blocks, two-thirds down the street. The whole road was grey on grey on grey, perpetually damp, all lifeless front gardens with weeds poking through broken pavement slabs, cars parked half up on the curb, and weathered graffiti. It was a normal neighbourhood in a normal town, where mothers chatted on the front steps while their kids played in the street, where everything was the same day in and day out. 

Armin hadn’t grown up here, but he might as well have. This town was on another side of the small country but it was just the same as the one he’d grown up in. Standing outside his new house left him with a sense of familiarity and he hadn’t even put the key in the lock yet. Boring was the word that came to mind. He shouldn’t have expected anything exciting. The only thing that was really different about this place was the smell of the ocean in the air. 

He parked outside and walked up to the house, double-checking he had the right address, and shoved two sets of keys into his pocket. The gate was rusty from all the rain and it creaked when Armin pushed it open, just like he’d expected it to. One of the slabs on the path was loose and it wobbled when he stepped on it. He held the keys in his hand, peering through frosted glass. He couldn’t get a good look in the door. He felt like a visitor, like he should be knocking. But this was his house now. 

It was left to him by a grandfather he’d never met. Armin was sure he was the only person left in their family for it to be left to. He didn’t even know that his grandfather had passed away until after the funeral, which had apparently been arranged by friends of his. He’d been contacted out of the blue that his grandfather had left this house to him, a convenient bombshell that landed at a time where he had no idea what he was doing with his life. So he’d dropped everything - which admittedly, wasn’t much - and packed all his stuff into his car to move into a new, empty house and start over, leaving broken friendships and a lot of bad memories behind. 

When he opened the door, he’d expected to see an old, dark house. He’d expected to see his father’s house reflected in it, the same drab wallpaper and damp on the ceiling, the same worn welcome mat, the same off white carpet. 

But when Armin walked in, he was completely taken aback.

This was…  _ nothing _ like he’d expected. The narrow corridor leading to the stairs was cramped and filled with stuff, strange items didn’t recognise stacked up on shelves, bags and boxes leaning against walls. It was cluttered, but it looked deliberate, in a way, like everything had a purpose in where it was placed. There were framed vinyl on the walls. It looked… cool. Armin felt like he’d stepped through a portal. 

The thing that surprised him most, though, was just how  _ clean _ everything was. This did not look like a dead man’s house. There wasn’t even any post. It set him on edge. It was clear that this house hadn’t been left untouched for as long as he’d imagined. Had someone been here? Was he just overthinking things again? 

“Hello?” He called out curiously, not expecting a response. He wasn’t all too surprised when he didn’t get one, but he still felt strange. Maybe if he scraped the last of his money together he could change the locks. 

Slowly, he made his way through the house. His bags were still in his car, but he would bring those in later. Every room was weirder than the last. It wasn’t even set up like an actual house. There was so much  _ stuff _ everywhere. The living room was full of bookshelves, and the one ratty old armchair was piled so high with even more books. That excited Armin a little, even if he was still in shock over how strange it all was. The dining room, if it could even be called that, was a small square, and most of its space was used up by a grand piano sitting dead in the centre, immaculate, totally gorgeous. There were piles and piles of sheet music stacked up on the stool. Seeing it almost made Armin want to play again. Almost. 

The kitchen was the only room that looked half normal, though the fridge was absolutely covered in magnets. Armin could hear it humming. The power was still on, then - he hadn’t even thought to try the lights, but when he did, they flickered on sure enough. This was weird. Really weird. 

Upstairs was his grandfather's bedroom, and next to it, a room behind a locked door, which was a complete mystery that irked him. He didn’t like locked doors; he was too curious for his own good. Even the bathroom was full of books. It looked its age, with mint green tile and yellowing sconces. 

There was another set of stairs leading upwards, and since Armin couldn’t get into any of the other rooms on the first floor, he decided to go up. They led right up to a door, which, when opened, revealed a room that was shaped like the roofline, completely triangular. Even though it was small, it was the only room in the house that looked bare, like something was missing inside. There was a single bed that looked like it had been assembled haphazardly, shoved in at a strange angle. There wasn’t a bedside table, but there were a few books on the floor next to the bed, and a lamp, too. Other than a dresser, that was it. A window looked out to the street, giving Armin a good look up at the dark clouds of early winter, and when he went over, it looked like it would be possible to crawl through the window and out onto the roof. 

He figured that this was where he’d be sleeping, then. He took another look around, still not really able to get over how weird this all was, and turned to go back downstairs when he heard the front door slam. 

Armin froze. That was definitely  _ this _ front door, there was no doubt about it. 

Fear churned in his gut. Quietly, he grabbed a book and tried to make his way down the stairs silently, though it felt like every step creaked under his weight. The person was moving around down there. Armin was sure he’d locked the door. How did they get in? They must have had a key. Was his grandfather actually alive? 

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he almost forgot to be scared. But when the intruder spoke it made him jump out of his skin. 

“Who the fuck are  _ you _ ?”

Armin stared down at the intruder, who was looking back up at him with the same bewildered expression. He looked Armin’s age, maybe a little older. He was tall, with light brown hair pushed back behind his ears, and a slightly scruffy beard. He was holding a case that Armin thought probably held an instrument, but it had been so long since he’d been around music that he couldn’t exactly tell what it was. 

The real question on his mind, though, was why this man had walked into his house and asked who  _ he  _ was. That told him that he must come here a lot. In that case, he was probably the person keeping everything clean, and dealing with the post and keeping the power on. So he had a key. But the will hadn’t mentioned anything about sharing the house, so why -

“Are you going to answer me, or are you just going to stand there staring?” The man asked. 

Armin blinked. 

“Is this your house?” He asked, playing dumb trying to get a reaction and find out what was going on. He was holding the book in his hand still, but he didn’t sense that there was any threat. Still, though, you could never be too sure. The man set down his case and took a step forward. Armin took a step back. Alright, maybe he was a little nervous. 

“I have a key, don’t I?” The intruder said, holding it up. “So I’ll ask again. Who the fuck are you?”

Armin paused for a second while he tried to figure out what to do. He could try to kick him out, but this guy was easily a lot taller and stronger than him. He could get to the phone and try to call the police, but he was in the way. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. 

“This is my house.” Armin got the keys out of his pocket and held them up so that he could see them.

“ _ Your _ house,” the man said, raising an eyebrow. “Since when?”

“Since it was left to me.”

Armin watched as shock, confusion, and then realisation passed over the man’s face, and he took a step back in shock. 

“You’re Mr Arlert’s grandson?”

Armin just nodded, and the man paled.

“Shit,” he said. “Uh…”

“Who are you?” Armin asked, leaning against the wall. He was trying to look less nervous than he actually felt, but it was hard. 

“A friend,” the stranger said. “A friend of your grandfather’s.”

“You were my grandfather’s friend,” Armin repeated with a bit of a sceptical expression. “Aren’t you around my age?”

“How old are you?” 

“Does it matter?”

The man leaned against the wall and folded his arms over his chest. “I’m twenty-three.”

“Good for you,” Armin said. “Now please explain why you’re in my house.”

“Your grandfather used to let my band play here.”

“You’re in a band?”

The intruder’s face lit up like nobody really ever asked him about it. “Yeah. Well, I mean, sort of.”

Armin raised an eyebrow. “Sort of? Are you, or not?”

“I  _ was _ ,” he said.

“This is becoming more and more complicated.”

Armin was sure that if this man was trying to rob the place, he would have run off by now. Besides, everything was clean and definitely not stolen, judging by how much  _ stuff _ there was around the place. Something in his gut made him believe that he was telling the truth, and his intuition was rarely wrong. 

“I know it is,” the man said, taking another step forward. “Just - let me explain. So I was in a band, back when Mr Arlert was still alive, right? And he’d let us stop by and play in the cellar all the time. I even have a key.”

“You showed me.”

“Right. So after he died, the band broke up, and I still come here to practise.”

“Okay,” Armin said. He set the book down on top of another pile and sat down on the top step. He wasn’t quite sure what to say, so he took a moment to pause and think. 

“Look,” came the voice from the bottom of the stairs, interrupting his train of thought. “Just - can I still use the cellar to practise? I’ll - I’ll give the main house key back, man, just let me use the cellar.”

“Why?”

“My neighbours hate it when I play,” he said. Armin squinted at him, pushing his glasses up his nose. He could tell that wasn’t the whole truth. 

“Are you that bad?” Armin asked, joking a little, which seemed to take the man by surprise, because he laughed. 

“I sure as fuck hope not,” he said, a grin on his face that quickly faded to concern. “You won’t even hear me down there, I swear.”

Armin sighed, but he couldn’t help but feel a little… exhilarated. This was different, wasn’t it? It was hard to feel too annoyed at the situation when it was at least a bit of excitement, though maybe not the exact kind he’d been hoping for. 

“I’ll pay you,” the man continued.

Armin’s eyes widened. That… was enticing. “How much?”

“Five pounds a day?”

If Armin was drinking something he would have spat it out. That would tide him over easily, along with what he already had, until he found a new job… 

“How do I know you’re not up to something shady?”

“You look pretty smart, Glasses, can’t you see I’m telling the truth? I just want to play my sax in peace.”

Armin sighed and stood up again, walking down the stairs. So there was a saxophone in that case.

“My name isn’t Glasses,” he said. “It’s Armin.”

“Jean,” the man said in return. “Is that a yes, then?”

Armin looked up at Jean, trying to get a read on his face. He wanted to be able to tell what he was thinking - he wanted to know the history behind Jean and his grandfather, how they knew each other. There were a million questions he wanted to ask, and he couldn’t help himself. 

“Not yet,” he said, holding his hand out for the key. “I want to ask you some stuff first.”

Armin was sure that it was probably a bad idea, but Jean handed over the keys with no question, and he led him out to the kitchen. Armin opened the cupboards and peered around to see if there was any tea. Sure enough, there was a tin of Earl Grey, which was his favourite. It felt odd, but not in a bad way. There was a little connection there between Armin and his relative, even though they had never met. Armin kind of liked it. 

Jean sat up at the counter on one of the stools. His legs were really long, Armin noticed. He tried not to stare. It seemed like Jean was totally at home there, while Armin was still overwhelmed by the sheer volume of everything in the room. 

“Cutlery’s in the drawer next to the sink, if you were looking for a teaspoon,” Jean said, and Armin tried not to look taken aback by it. Jean really did know his way around the place, that much was obvious. 

“Thanks,” he mumbled, making them both tea. When it was done, he stood by the sink, peering out into the small, boxy back garden. There was a washing line and a door which he presumed led to the cellar. Several thriving houseplants sat on the windowsill, recently watered. 

“Are you the only one that comes here?” Armin asked. “Or do I have to worry about other random people letting themselves into my house?”

“No, it’s just me,” Jean said, and Armin thought he heard almost a twinge of sadness in his voice. 

It must have been Jean taking care of the houseplants, then, he thought. It showed that he respected the house at least. 

“Was that all you wanted to ask?” Jean continued. 

“No,” Armin said, taking a sip and almost burning his tongue while he decided where to start. He chose to go for the obvious. “How did you know my grandfather?”

“How did I know him?” Jean repeated. “I’ve known him since I was a kid. He was my music teacher at school.”

“And you visit your teacher’s houses often?”

“No,” Jean scoffed. “But Mr Arlert was different.”

“How so?” Armin asked curiously. 

“He cared,” Jean said with a shrug of his shoulders. “He was the only teacher at our school that gave a shit. I was a bit of an asshole back then, I guess. A troublemaker.”

He grinned almost wistfully, like he was proud of it, like he missed it. 

“And that’s changed how?” Armin couldn’t help but tease a little bit. “You just broke into my house, I think you’re still a troublemaker.”

Jean laughed. “I didn’t break in, I have a key.”

“You  _ had _ a key,” Armin reminded him. Jean rolled his eyes and took a sip of the tea Armin had made him. 

“Anyway,” Jean said. “Mr Arlert was amazing at music. He could play pretty much anything, you know that, right?”

Armin shook his head. “No, I knew nothing about him before he died. I never even met him.”

“Oh,” Jean said. He looked taken aback, but he continued. “He could play any instrument you gave him. And there were a few of us that he’d give lessons to, and eventually a couple of guys from the year above and I started playing together.”

“And that’s this band you were talking about.”

“Yeah,” Jean nodded. “The three of us. And Mr Arlert would let us rehearse here, and he’d help us out with anything. He taught all three of us how to play.”

“Why did the band break up?” Armin asked. 

“It was after he passed away,” Jean murmured. He was scowling. “It wasn’t the same after that. I was the only one that really wanted to keep going.”

“Why did you carry on?”

“Why?” Jean asked. “Because I love music.”

There was a moment then when they were both silent, but the air between them wasn’t tense or awkward. Armin wasn’t used to that. He was used to feeling like the odd one out, or being paranoid that other people found him weird. He definitely wasn’t accustomed to a comfortable silence, let alone with a complete stranger who just moments before he’d considered calling the police on. 

“You ready didn’t know him?” Jean asked after he’d drained the rest of his tea. 

“No, not at all.”

“Was he your dad’s dad?”

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t he ever talk about him?”

“No.”

“You should ask him. I’d love to know what kind of stories your dad has about Mr Arlert.”

Armin didn’t know if he should be blunt about it or not, but he decided that was the way to go. 

“I can’t,” he told Jean. 

“Why not?” 

Armin bit his lip. “He’s dead.”

“What? Are you kidding?”

“That would be a pretty morbid thing to joke about.”

“What happened?”

Most people didn’t ask that, they just offered their condolences and said they were sorry. Armin had never really liked that very much. Jean was a little tactless but Armin almost appreciated it. It was refreshing. 

“Both of my parents died in an accident when I was at uni,” Armin said. 

“Fuck,” Jean murmured. “Fucking hell, that’s heavy.”

“Yeah,” Armin said, breathing out through his nose in a little huff. “Yeah, it was awful. I didn’t think I even had any family left, and then it turns out I did… but I didn’t find out until it was too late.”

Armin smiled humourlessly. He couldn't believe he’d just dumped all of that on a stranger. But Jean didn’t really seem very bothered by it, or uncomfortable. He looked just the same as he had before. 

“And that’s why you didn’t just sell the place?” Jean asked. He was surprisingly perceptive, Armin thought. 

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I wasn’t expecting  _ this _ , though…”

He gestured around all the stuff. Jean laughed.

“It is pretty weird in here, right? God, the first time he showed me around… I must have been fourteen or fifteen. My jaw was on the  _ floor,”  _ Jean said. “It was so cool.”

Armin agreed. It  _ was _ cool in this house, in a way that didn’t suit him. He was nerdy, shy, and he definitely didn’t play music anymore. This place was effortlessly eclectic in a way that seemed more akin to Jean.

“Let me see the cellar,” Armin said, putting his mug in the sink. He wanted to know if there was any way to get into the main house from there, just to calm his paranoia. Oddly enough, he seemed to have an intrinsic trust of Jean, but he didn’t want to regret it later, so he remained careful.

Jean grinned and went right for the back door, forgetting that it was locked. 

“It’s the key with the green cap,” he pointed out to Armin, and Armin rolled his eyes, picking it out and opening the door. Jean seemed to shoot out into the garden like a dog that hadn’t been walked, going right to the door of the cellar. Armin followed after him, noticing a cat on the back wall that shrank away when it saw him. 

Jean led Armin into the cellar, and Armin wondered for a moment if he was going to get murdered, but it seemed that Jean was really telling the truth. There was another door at the bottom of the stairs, and once that was unlocked too, Jean flicked on the lights and let the room fill up with light. 

When Armin thought of cellars, he thought of dingy, dark rooms full of spiders and bugs, but this had subverted his expectations once again. It was a spacious room, stocked with instruments. Everything was pristine. A drum kit was set up in the corner, the light glinting off the metal, and a double bass leaned against the wall. There were all sorts of stands, and a keyboard that Armin felt a strange urge to play. He didn’t touch it, though. He didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of someone who obviously knew a lot about music. It had been far too long since he’d last played. 

There were stacks and stacks of sheet music and a few stands on the other side of the room, and Jean was looking around with glee like he was a kid and this was a playground. 

“What do you play?” Armin asked. “The band, I mean.”

“Anything,” Jean replied. “But funk, mainly, and jazz. Do you want to hear?” 

“It’s not much of a band if there’s just one of you, is it?” 

Jean laughed, glaring at him jokingly. “Maybe I’ll be able to convince the guys to come and give it another go.”

Armin nodded and started trying to get the front door key off Jean’s set so he could give the cellar ones to Jean. He was pretty much certain that he wasn’t going to kill him in his sleep or steal anything, so Armin was comfortable giving them over. 

“Take them,” he said. Jean almost looked surprised. 

“You’re really letting me have these?” He asked. Armin shrugged.

“It’s not like I’m going to be using the stuff down here,” he said, his eyes flicking over to the keyboard for a second. “Even though it’s probably worth a fortune.”

Jean took a step back. 

“You’re not going to  _ sell _ this stuff, are you?” He asked, looking genuinely panicked. 

“No,” Armin said honestly, but he didn’t tell him why. He didn’t know if he  _ could _ bring himself to sell the only reminders he had left of a family. His own parents hadn’t been able to leave him a penny. They hadn’t owned their house, either. Armin didn’t want to throw away his grandfather’s things. It was the only way he could get to know him. That was why he hadn’t sold the house, too.

“Good.” Jean breathed a sigh of relief.

“Are you going to play now?” Armin asked, watching the way he’d bent down to pop open the clasps on the case. He resisted the urge to lean over and peer at the instrument inside. 

“Nah, I’m just getting this out to stare at it,” Jean said sarcastically. “You staying to listen or not?”

Armin felt a blush crawl up his cheeks and he blinked at him. Jean was so nonchalant about other people hearing his playing. How was he so confident?

“No,” he murmured, “that’s alright. Lock up after you’re done.”

Jean nodded, and Armin quickly scurried back up the stairs. As he got back into the kitchen, he heard the sounds of Jean tuning up. So much for not being able to hear him. But it was almost like he had company…

And Armin found it difficult to mind.

* * *

That night, Armin lay awake in bed, covered in blankets that tried to fight off the early winter chill. Jean had left hours ago. When the music stopped, Armin had peered out one of the windows and watched as Jean locked the back door behind him, then jumped over the wall into the back lane. 

Jean was a stranger, just like his grandfather. Armin knew that, but he was still letting him use part of his house. He’d only been here for one day, whereas Jean had been a part of this house’s history for years. He didn’t feel like this was  _ his,  _ even though it clearly was. It was like it should belong to Jean instead. 

Armin rolled over and leaned back, stretching out and pulling the blankets closer around him, wondering when Jean would come back. 


	2. Chapter 2

Armin couldn’t say that he felt at home in this strange house. When he woke up the next morning in the loft room, he almost forgot where he was. He was expecting to wake up in his uncomfortable bed in his uni flat, but when he opened his eyes and saw the roof beams above him, everything came back at once and he realised that he was on the other side of the country. It was, at least, a lot more comfortable. Not as cold, either. For the first time since he was a teenager, Armin had slept in, and he almost panicked before he realised that he really had nothing to do but start unpacking. He was giving himself a few days to get settled before he started looking for a job, anyway. 

The set of drawers in his room was empty, which he was glad for. He really didn’t want to deal with the foreign feeling of clearing out his grandfather’s things just yet. As Armin packed his few items of clothing away, he made the decision that for now, he’d just sort of… make his home in the few spaces that his grandfather hadn’t filled with stuff. Maybe he’d talk to Jean about it. 

Armin wanted to know the stories behind everything. Every album, every book, every strange trinket he didn’t recognise… Armin wasn’t sure quite how much Jean was privy to, but if he came around again Armin thought he might ask him to tell him some more about the relative he hadn’t gotten the chance to meet yet. It might make him feel like less of a stranger in his place, he hoped. He wanted more of a connection to these things. And not only that - if Armin was going to be sorting through everything, he didn’t want to throw anything away that was secretly valuable or held great sentimental value. He was sure Jean wouldn’t mind helping him with that. If anything, that strange man seemed more at home in Armin’s house than Armin thought he ever would be. 

Maybe, too, there was more Armin could get out of that arrangement. It had never been easy for him to make friends. He’d had his two friends from childhood, but as they’d grown, so had the space between them. Three that had once been inseparable were now nothing much more than strangers with history. After that, Armin had never really bothered to try and make new connections. It was just… it seemed pointless. It wasn’t until his parents died and he realised he had _nobody_ that Armin really felt how lonely he truly was. And god, he was lonely. He had no friends. No family. He was alone. 

Jean… was an opportunity, Armin thought. Perhaps a subconscious desire for friendship was part of the reason Armin had handed over those keys, or maybe it was something else entirely. Either way, even if a friendship with Jean would prove fruitless, Armin thought that it would at least be good for him to be able to practise what it was like to interact with someone his own age in a way that wasn’t purely based on group projects at university or the passing nod in the street to someone he used to call a friend. 

He didn’t know when Jean was going to come back, but he kept an ear out as he started unpacking the rest of his stuff. He didn’t have much; he could never afford to buy stuff for himself. He had three mugs - his mother’s, his father’s, and his - some plates from home and the odd little pot that was too awkward of a size to use for anything other than putting used teabags in by the kettle. That was where that went, right beside the one his grandfather used. He had a few records that he kept up in his bedroom along with the many books he’d brought. Books were the only thing Armin had an excess of. He couldn’t bring himself to throw any away. 

He spent the next hour just walking around, and Armin came to the conclusion that he’d inherited his almost hoarder-like tendency to collect books from his grandfather. There were books on _everything_. Maths, history, geography - all kinds of non-fiction were piled up with both famous and obscure literature. Most of the books, though, were about music, which came as no surprise. Armin skimmed through them all. There were piles and piles of sheet music, books on theory, biographies of famous musicians and composers from all genres. Armin recognised all the names of the classical composers. 

The piano that had been almost shoved into the dining room hadn’t moved since the last time he’d checked. Armin wasn’t sure why he’d almost expected to find it gone when he walked in, but it was definitely still there. He looked back at it. It was _expensive_ , he could tell from the make of it. It made him nervous; he wasn’t used to being around things that cost a lot of money. He was poor and he’d always been poor. 

Armin walked over to the windows and drew the curtains to let the light in. The piano was spotless, not a speck of dust in sight. He lifted up the lid and ran his fingers across the keys, tracing the patterns of scales he used to practice every single day. It was the first time in years he’d touched a piano. He didn’t play anymore. 

Once upon a time, he had. Back when he was in primary school, Armin would sneak into the music room and climb up onto the stool to play the piano. He’d sit there with his legs dangling, unable to touch the floor or reach the pedals. He kept sneaking in, getting away with it for years, and he absolutely drowned himself in knowledge, teaching himself everything he could possibly hope to know. He played so quietly in there, his old friends keeping guard at the door sometimes, just to avoid getting caught. The music teacher was terrifying. She was an old, spindly woman, the kind of teacher that felt older than the school itself and that even the headmaster was slightly intimidated by. 

When he got caught he expected to be expelled, but as it turned out, the old music teacher seemed to make it a little easier for him to sneak in next time.

When he got to secondary school, there _was_ no music room, and Armin had no way to keep going. He never _lost_ interest, but other things took over, schoolwork and exams and all the other things Armin was passionate about. He was the kind of person that found everything interesting.

But here he was, now, with a house and a degree and a whole day of nothing to do. He could easily sit down and start again, but he was almost apprehensive to try. The piano reminded him of a happier time, when he had friends, when his parents were there. Life had always been hard for him, but it had been worth it, despite their struggles for money and the bullying Armin endured. He was nervous to indulge himself in something that reminded him so much of a life that was less lonely. He thought it might make him feel worse.

He wondered if his fingers would remember the shapes of the chords and the patterns of melodies he liked to create. His hands had grown since then, and so had the rest of him. He was scared of having forgotten, because it would have been like another piece of his old happiness fading away. 

Armin shut the lid of the piano and shook off the feeling of sadness tinged with regret. He had too many things to do, he told himself, even though it wasn’t really true. He didn’t have the time to wander around making himself upset over things that were already gone and buried.

* * *

A little while later, Armin tied his shoelaces quickly and shrugged on his winter coat, ready to head out and get something to eat. He wanted to explore the town a little, go to the beach, and pick up some shopping on the way home. He was giving himself a few days before he decided to start looking for work. At least then he’d have a chance to get settled and used to the place where he was now living.

Outside, the early winter air was biting, and Armin pulled his hood up to try and cover his face as he walked quickly down the street. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but he would figure it out. He had a knack for finding his way around, and he had a good sense of direction. It was so windy that his hood kept blowing back down, so he gave up on it and let his hair blow around and his cheeks sting from the cold. 

There was a shop on the corner, a normal, boring looking newsagents. There must have been a thousand identical ones all over the country. Armin decided that he’d go in on his way back and pick up some basic stuff and something to make for dinner. He thought about ordering something, getting a takeaway, but it always felt like such a waste of money when he could make something himself. 

It was a sunny day, but the blue weather did little to inject any life into the greyness that seemed to sit in the heart of the city. The prettiest thing around, Armin thought, were the bright yellow dandelions poking up from between the cracks in the pavement. He avoided stepping on them as he made his way down the road and towards the centre of town. 

The high street was mildly busy. People were milling around doing their weekend shopping, chatting on the plastic, outdoor seating of cafes and smoking. Armin watched one little girl throwing a tantrum in her pram, practically half falling out of it, while her tired-looking mum picked at a plate of eggs on toast. There was a group of teenagers looking bored as they sat around on the steps to a boarded-up department store. It was all so familiar to Armin. He felt like he recognised everything he was seeing, despite never having been around there before.

The city was perched on the coast, the beach only a five minute walk from the high street. It was a shingle beach, rocky - the kind of beach you didn’t take your shoes off to walk along, unless you were used to it. There were beach huts painted in different colours, faded, the wood rotting in places from all the rain. There were deck chairs, too, and an ice cream truck that had a decent queue, even in spite of the cold. A sunny day was a sunny day, Armin supposed, even if it wasn’t particularly warm. 

Armin decided to take a walk down the pier. He always liked being by the ocean, and although in many ways this city mirrored the one he’d grown up in, having the beach nearby was a huge plus. The smell of the saltwater was so refreshing, and it reminded him of going fishing with his dad when he was young. 

After sitting down and reading for a while, Armin got up to wander around a little more, cutting through the arcade. It was a big, open room with a glass roof, and an assault on all the senses. Everything was bright and made noise, and it was busier than anywhere he’d seen so far. It was all lit up in reds and golds, flashing lights that Armin thought would probably look a bit better when it was dark outside. The pattern on the carpet was the gaudiest thing he’d ever seen, but for some reason, Armin quite liked how it all seemed to work together. Just like his grandfather’s house, this was one of those places that looked dull on the outside, but was chaos on the inside. It made him wonder how many other places like that could be found in this city.

By the time he’d walked all around the beach and seen everything there was to see, there was an ache in his legs and the sun was halfway set in the sky. It got dark so early in winter afternoons, and Armin decided to set off back to the house. _His_ house, he reminded himself. 

In the newsagents, he got himself some of the basic necessities, and let himself spend a little extra on something sweet, rationalising that it was to celebrate moving in. It was a small shop, but packed so full that there was barely space to squeeze between the shelves. It made Armin wonder if the guy behind the till was able to get through them without knocking off a half dozen tins. He was huge, that was why - stocky and built, with forearms that were probably bigger than Armin’s thighs. He looked down at his legs. Yeah, definitely. He looked bored, and he was tapping two pens against the counter in a quick but steady rhythm. He wasn’t even sure he realised he was doing it.

It was a little strange to see a man so big in a shop that was so tiny. It made the counter look like it was one of those plastic toys made for children. He certainly made Armin feel small.   
  
Armin avoided eye contact with the guy as he took his shopping over to pay, but he could feel his gaze regardless. He ignored it, just sliding the exact change over and shuffling from foot to foot as he packed up his shopping into a blue plastic bag. Armin awkwardly thanked him, feeling a bit weird and frankly more intimidated than he should have been, considering that the man didn’t do anything out of the ordinary at all. 

As he walked down the street the cheap bag kept spinning around, cutting off the circulation to his fingers, but Armin barely noticed. He was so jittery, that when he heard someone call out his name as he was walking, he almost jumped out of his skin. 

A bike skidded up next to him. Jean was there, ringing the bell on the bike and giving him a grin. He was wearing his saxophone case on his back and frankly, it looked quite stupid, though Jean _almost_ pulled it off. 

“Hey,” he said breathlessly, like he’d been cycling for a really long time. “I was just about to come over. How’s it going?”

“Um… good?” Armin said. If he was honest, he wasn’t really sure. “I’ve just been looking around the city.”

“Oh, yeah, I figured,” Jean said, pushing his bike beside him as he walked. 

“Did you call?” Armin asked. 

“Yeah, but no answer,” Jean said. “How’d you find it?”

Armin shrugged. 

“It’s a lot like where I grew up,” he said. “But the beach is nice.”

“Where are you from, then?”

Armin told him, a little embarrassed to be sharing things about himself. He wasn’t used to being so open about himself. He was more the type to listen, but Jean asked a lot of questions. 

“Do you live close to the beach?” Armin asked, thinking that Jean must have been on the other side of the city if he was so out of breath from cycling. 

“Well, technically, yeah,” Jean said. “But not that one. I live in a little village about… ten or so miles away?”

“And you _cycled_ here?” Armin asked in disbelief. 

Jean laughed. “Yeah, I do it every day. Got to stay fit somehow, right?”

“I think that would kill me,” Armin replied. 

“I work up here,” Jean explained. “And I’m not really a fan of driving.”

“Right,” Armin said, pushing open the creaky gate to his new house and letting Jean go in ahead of him once he’d locked up his bike. “What d’you do?”

“I work in a restaurant,” Jean said. “And I put in some hours at my friend’s shop, too.”

“Are you a chef?” Armin asked. 

“No,” Jean laughed, going in first again as Armin let him in the front door. “Nah, I’m just a waiter. I do like cooking though.”

“Me too,” Armin said quietly, happy that they had something in common. For a moment he hoped that would make him a little less awkward, and it wasn’t until then that he realised he hadn’t really been _that_ much awkwardness between he and Jean so far. It was pretty easy to talk to him, more so than with other people, which was even more odd considering how they had met. They walked down the narrow hall towards the kitchen, and Armin unlocked the back door. Jean made no move to leave, though - he just took his saxophone off his back and leaned against the kitchen counter, fiddling with the clasp on his bike helmet. 

“I should really start looking for another job, though,” he mused, finally getting the helmet off and putting it down beside him. 

“You already have two, save some for the rest of us,” Armin said. He found himself having to look away from Jean - something about the way his hair was all messy made Armin feel weird. 

“You looking for work, are you?” Jean asked. Armin was grateful he didn’t seem to notice anything up with him. 

“I was going to start looking in a couple days. I don’t really know what to look for though…”

“Don’t you have a degree?”

“Yeah. History.”

“Boring.”

“You think history is boring?” Armin asked, looking back at him. The weird feeling was gone, replaced by genuine surprise.

“You _don’t?”_

“No, absolutely not! History is _fascinating_ . Learning about the world, how people used to live. How things changed, how some things _never_ change. It’s so big, so vast we could never learn about it all, but at the same time there are so many individual stories, right? So many amazing things we got to learn about because the people back then preserved their legacies.”

Jean was looking at him with an expression somewhere between intrigue and amusement. 

“So you’re a nerd,” he said, smiling ever so slightly. 

“Something wrong with that?” Armin asked, a little defensive about it after so many years of having the word thrown at him like an insult. He couldn’t help it - it was almost instinctual to him by then.

“No,” Jean said, holding his hands up to protest his innocence. “I didn’t say that, did I? I’m just pointing it out.”

“Not much point in stating the obvious,” Armin said, and Jean just laughed. 

“Well, if you like history, this house is full of it.”

“It is,” Armin said quietly. “I don’t quite know what to do with it all…”

“It’s… a lot, isn’t it?” 

“That’s putting it lightly.”

“Do you need a hand sorting it out?” Jean asked. Armin wasn’t sure if he was imagining the hope he detected in Jean’s tone. 

“You would do that?”

“Yeah,” Jean said, looking at him like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Do you know how long I’ve been wanting to get my hands on all of this? Your grandfather always said he’d let me see it all one day, but…”

Jean trailed off then, a sad look in his eyes. 

“Yeah,” Armin said, looking at him. His voice was even softer than before. “Yeah, I understand. I’d, um, I’d appreciate the help, then?”

Jean’s expression lit back up, then, excited by the prospect. “When?”

“Uh, I… I don’t know? Whenever? I’m not exactly busy…”

“Tomorrow, then,” Jean said. “I’ll stop by after work in the afternoon?”

“Oh,” Armin said, surprised, but… warm, somehow. It was touching in a way that felt alien to him. He knew it was probably silly. Jean wasn’t doing it to spend time with him, he knew that - he was doing it for the house, for the memories of a man he’d known better than Armin. But Jean seemed keen. And nobody had ever really been keen about anything to do with him. So he let himself take it, that little bit of happiness. 

“Sure,” he said. The weird feeling came back when he looked up and saw Jean beaming at him.

“Cool,” Jean said. “Right, I’m going to head down. I’ll be an hour or two?” 

“Okay,” Armin said, nodding. “See you.”

“See ya, nerd.”

“No worries,” Armin murmured, watching him go with a little pout on his face. He peered out the window as Jean walked down the path and towards the cellar door. He still wondered if it was a little reckless that he was just letting this happen. For all he knew, Jean could come along and steal everything down there and Armin would be powerless to stop him. But something in his gut told him Jean wasn’t going to do that. Logically it didn’t make sense, either. Armin wouldn’t have gone so far as to say he _trusted_ him, but at the very least he was almost certain Jean wasn’t going to rob him blind. 

He could just about hear the melody of a saxophone over the sounds of his cooking, smothered mainly by the soundproofing that almost did its job. Armin liked it. The pieces he played sounded like nothing he’d really heard before, very different from the classical music he was more fond of. He could tell Jean was talented, and if he hadn’t thought it an intrusion, he might have gone down there and asked to sit and listen. He didn’t though. 

He ate dinner alone, sat at the kitchen counter, still listening as he thumbed through one of the books he had brought. Half on purpose, he’d made enough food for two people, maybe hoping that Jean would ask to come up and eat with him. But he didn’t, and Armin tried not to let it bother him, telling himself he knew that was going to happen and that it didn’t matter. That it was better, that way, actually, because now he had food for tomorrow, too, and he didn’t have to worry about cooking then. He couldn’t remember the last time he had shared a meal with someone else, though. It would have been nice, Armin thought, but he knew he wouldn’t ask - he was sure that it would result in either Jean eating with him out of pity, or an outright rejection, and he wasn’t sure which would have been worse. 

He was still reading when Jean came and knocked on the back door, and Armin let him out, making small talk and pretending he hadn’t been able to hear him playing. He waved, almost shy, when Jean sped off down the grey street on his bike, and smiled just a little when Jean waved back. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a lot longer to get out than I would have liked, but still, it's finally here! I'm really happy that I managed to finish this, and I hope you enjoy!

When Jean’s alarm went off, he found himself actually looking forward to the day ahead of him. Since Armin agreed to let him help sort out Mr Arlert’s stuff, he hadn’t been able to take his mind off getting started. Ever since he was a young teen, Jean had wanted to explore how vast Mr Arlert’s collection of music and instruments really was. The old man would always tell Jean about things if he asked, but the sheer amount of  _ stuff _ made it impossible to know about every single thing. It would have taken years to learn about everything, and as Jean had learned, life was never kind enough to give you all the time you wanted. 

Still, Jean was excited as he got out of bed, throwing the blankets off without caring where they landed. He headed for the shower, stepping over the clothes he’d discarded on the floor the night before. He’d deal with that later. Jean brushed his teeth in the shower, tapping his foot to the tune playing in his head. He was already itching to listen to music, so he hummed his own as he got ready for the day.

After he made breakfast, Jean went into the living room and drew the heavy black-out curtains, watching the outside as he ate. The large windows opened up to the ocean, framing a view that stretched all the way to the horizon. It was the only spot in the house that Jean truly liked, and he had a routine of standing there while he had breakfast, watching the water as its waves rolled slowly in and out. He’d always loved the sound they made when they hit against the house. When the clouds were white and didn’t cover up the whole sky, the sound of the ocean was soothing, just the gentle rhythm of the tide going out as the beach came back into view.

Jean lived with his mother in a home that was perched right on the shoreline. Their village was on the small side, with a population of just a hundred or so people, and their house was one of the biggest there. Too big, Jean always thought. They couldn’t afford to heat the house all winter, and his mother’s tendency to keep the curtains drawn and the lights off made Jean’s home feel dark and empty to him. He’d been pestering his mum to sell the place for years, but she refused, so Jean preferred to stay outside, or at Mr Arlert’s place. It was second nature to him to be out of the house as much as possible. He hated his house, and if he wasn’t so worried about his mum, he would have moved out long ago.

When he was ready, Jean drew the curtains in the living room back over, and put his wallet, keys and bike lock into his saxophone case. He carried his bike up the steps so he could ride to the city, put his helmet on, and set off. It was a cold morning, but luckily for him, still too early in January for the frost to settle on the roads. Jean liked the bracing cold against his cheeks as he started pedalling through the narrow, winding streets of his village. Cycling up the huge hill was always a killer start to the ten-mile journey, but Jean liked the burn in his legs and lungs. It woke him up. 

The village was small, eccentric, and colourful. The houses were pained various shades of pastel, and each had something interesting in the window. People left their wellies on the doorstep and didn’t worry about chaining up their bikes. Everyone that lived in the village was a little weird in one way or another, himself included. Jean liked that. It made for an interesting contrast to just how  _ boring _ his life was as soon as he stepped through the door to his house. 

Jean kept going up the hill, passing by the shop where his mum worked part-time selling postcards, interesting seashells and art made of beach glass. There was an ice-cream stand at the front that was barren now, but in summer, had queues that went down the street. Jean liked how busy it got in summer, what with all the tourists searching for a nice day at the beach, but he liked winter more. He liked the community of it all, how the school band did weekly shows at the church, and the small Christmas market, and the nights where it felt like the whole village was at the pub drinking mulled cider. 

Jean’s journey took him along the coast for a little while. He liked this part of the ride the best, because it was flat, and he barely had to pedal. He could just watch the shore and admire the view. Occasionally he would stop to let a car pass, waving politely when he recognised the driver as someone who lived in town. 

The sky began to darken as Jean turned off into the woods, and he hoped it wouldn’t rain. It was always much more annoying to ride along the bumpy path through the forest when the ground was slippery with mud. As he flew down his route, Jean hummed to himself, not caring that it made him more out of breath. He was excited, and not only because he was going to finally be able to explore the house. He couldn’t deny that the guy living in the house was intriguing too.

Jean pushed himself to go faster through the trees, still thinking about Armin. He was interesting in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Not anyone would be so calm and rational about finding a random stranger walk into their home, and Jean was glad for his own sake that Armin was. He’d been nice enough to let him continue to practise in the cellar, too, even though he didn’t have to. He didn’t know what he would do if he had to give that up. 

Armin was like his grandfather in some ways, but different in others. He was quiet, but Jean could tell he thought a lot, and even though they’d only met twice, he wanted to know what was going on inside his head. He wondered if they could become friends - Jean would have to just keep pestering Armin until he gave in. That had always worked for him. Jean knew he was likeable, that he was funny, and being able to cook didn’t hurt at all. There shouldn’t be a reason why Armin wouldn’t want to be his friend. 

Most of the forest path was downhill, and Jean focused on navigating along the winding track while gravity did most of the work for him. Eventually, the trees thinned out, and Jean turned the corner to look down at the city beyond the river. When the sun was out, the view was almost pretty, but like this, with the sky dark with the threat of incoming rain, the sea was tinged with grey. 

Jean walked his bike down the steep hill to take the ferry across the river. He always walked down that particular hill, fearing that he’d fall off and damage his sax as he had once when he was seventeen. He reached in his pocket for change as he approached the ferry, a pretty blue boat with slightly chipping paint that spent its day making the fifteen-minute trip from the city to the countryside over and over again. It was waiting there when he arrived, and he carried his bike on. At this time, there were only a few other people on board, so he didn’t get any disapproving looks when he let his feet rest on the seat opposite him. He looked back at where the river stretched out into the ocean, drummed his fingers on the handlebar of his bike, and watched the scenery pass as the small ferry chugged across the water. 

Riding through the city was Jean’s least favourite part of his commute, but it was also the shortest. The music shop where he put in most of his hours was only ten minutes from the other side of the river, and the streets weren’t busy yet, so onceJean was off the boat he had the road to himself for the most part. He didn’t mind running a red light or two when he was cycling; he’d just scoot right onto the pavement and avoid having to wait. When he arrived, he chained his bike to the lamp post outside and took off his helmet.

The bell jingled as Jean walked in, and it made the man at the counter almost jump out of his skin. 

“Did I startle you?” Jean laughed as he took his saxophone case off his shoulders and set it down next to him.

“A little, yeah,” Bertholdt admitted sheepishly. He was sat back from the counter because his legs were so long they didn’t fit underneath it. He and Jean had been friends for years. They had bonded when both introduced to music by Mr Arlert, and up until his death, they’d played together at his house along with Bertholdt’s closest friend, Reiner. Now, Bertholdt was running his father’s music shop almost entirely by himself. 

“Sorry.”

“You’re early,” Bertholdt noted, looking up at the clock. 

“How perceptive of you,” Jean said back. “But yeah. I don’t mind. I’m only working only four hours, I might as well drop by a bit earlier.”

“I appreciate it. Good ride?” 

“Yeah, I beat the rain,” Jean said, looking out the window and seeing that it was now drizzling. 

“Good thing you were early then, I guess,” Bertholdt said. 

“Exactly,” Jean agreed. He tied his hair back out of his face and looked around, brightening when he saw the new stock of reeds by the counter. “You got these in!”

“Yeah, you asked for them,” Bertholdt said, standing up and stretching. “We got some more stock in today, but that’s all I’ve put out so far. Do you mind staying on the till while I sort the rest out?”

“‘Course not.”

“It’s not like you’ll be busy…” Bertholdt said, frowning just a little. Jean laughed humourlessly. 

“I’ve got it, Bert. Go sort out the stock.”

Bertholdt nodded, and Jean sat down on the stool, leaning back a little and feeling a familiar happiness wash over him now that he was here. 

Jean loved this place. It wasn’t flashy or glamourous, just a small shop on a street full of other small shops. The outside was painted navy and there were two large windows that looked outside to the road if you could see past the instruments that hung in the display. Jean made sure they never gathered dust, but they hadn’t sold any in a while. Inside, more instruments were displayed on the walls, a notable amount donated by Mr Arlert in his lifetime. By the counter, there was a display that held reeds, pics, and spare strings, cork grease and on the upper shelves, mutes for trumpets and a couple of mini-screwdriver kits used for tightening the screws on instruments. Jean had one of those in his saxophone case already. 

There were records, too. That was the bulk of what they sold, but there were also books, collections of sheet music and actual record players, though there were only ever one or two of those at a time. Jean made sure one of them was always playing; he said it added to the ambience of the place, but really, he just liked being able to listen to whatever he wanted.

Business was slow. The shop had never been particularly successful, but it had always been able to trudge by. Ever since Mr Arlert died, though, it felt like they were slowing down more and more. Jean just hoped they’d be able to stay open; he liked working there. He liked talking to people that came in about music, even if they didn’t buy anything, which most of the time was the case. Jean just enjoyed the feeling of being surrounded by music. The job barely even paid, if at all, and though Bertholdt was embarrassed about it, Jean always assured him that he wasn’t doing it for the money. He was grateful for the opportunity to be out of the house, away from that cold silence. Besides, he knew Bertholdt was barely making money, either. It wouldn’t have felt right to him to take from that when he had another job anyway. 

The shop was quiet until late-morning, when a group of kids came in, shaking off the rain as they pulled their hoods down. Jean knew one of them as his friend’s little sister, a girl of about fourteen with long brown hair and an attitude. They all started looking through the records, and Jean watched the two boys in the group like a hawk, making sure they didn’t decide to take anything without paying first. Gabi, the girl he knew, came up to the counter. 

“Hey,” Jean said. “Looking for anything?”

“Is Bert here?” She asked, letting her backpack slip off one shoulder. Her fringe was wet from the rain, sticking to her face. 

“In the back,” Jean told her. “What’s up?”

“Reiner wanted me to pick up some guitar strings,” she said, rolling her eyes. Behind, one of the boys kept glancing over at her, a small blush on his cheeks. Jean smiled a little. 

“What kind?” He asked. 

“I don’t know. He said Bert would, though.”

“Alright. I’ll go get him, watch your friends.”

“They’re not going to do anything!”

“Don’t care, watch them anyway,” Jean said, giving the three a stern look as he went through to the back. 

Bertholdt was sat on the floor organising the stock, looking stressed. He tried to cover it up when he saw Jean, but it was clear how much he was worrying. 

“Everything okay?” Bertholdt asked. 

“Yeah,” Jean said, and Bertholdt visibly sagged with relief. “Gabi’s here. She wants you.”

“Is she alright?”

“Yeah, fine. Says Reiner wants some strings.”

“Oh, right,” Bertholdt said. “He could have just come in and gotten them himself…”

Bertholdt looked disappointed, but Jean didn’t say anything, just moved out of the way so he could get by, then followed him back in. The two boys jumped when they saw him, stepping back from the records. 

“Take these,” Berthodlt said, handing Gabi a pack of strings for an acoustic guitar. “And don’t let your brother send you out next time, okay? Tell him to come by.”

“He’s not my brother,” Gabi grumbled, handing the money over. Bertholdt sighed a little as he rang it up. 

“Your cousin, then.” Bertholdt corrected himself just to placate her. Though they technically were cousins, Reiner and Gabi had been raised as siblings. Even now that he was looking after her, Reiner always called Gabi his little sister. 

“Yeah, bother him about it,” Jean added. “He hasn’t shown his face around here in ages.”

“I wonder why,” Gabi said, looking at him. Jean laughed, despite the insult. If it was anyone else, he might have gotten mad. 

“Oi,” he warned, his voice fond. “Go on, get the hell out of here if you’re not going to buy anything else.”

“Fine,” Gabi grinned, pulling her hood back up. “See you guys later.” 

Bertholdt sighed again and sat down at the counter, rubbing his temples. 

“I don’t know why he doesn’t come by himself more often,” he said, sounding disappointed. Jean leaned against a revolving display and nearly fell over, but Bertholdt didn’t notice. 

“He’s busy, I guess,” Jean said.

“Yeah, I know,” Bertholdt sighed. “I just feel like I hardly see him anymore.”

“We need to start playing together again,” Jean said pointedly. 

“We will, soon,” Bertholdt said, though he’d been saying that for a while, and Jean didn’t know when exactly  _ soon  _ was. “Wait there a sec, I finally got this stuff organised.”

Bertholdt left for a moment and came back carrying a few boxes. Jean got to work with him, putting the new records into the displays. 

“How are you doing, then?” Jean asked, giving Bertholdt a look. 

“Me?” Bertholdt said. “Fine, I guess? Tired. But fine for the most part. How about you?”

Jean grinned, then. He’d been waiting to tell Bertholdt about this for the past two days. 

“You’ll never guess what happened,” he said.

“What?” Bertholdt asked tentatively, like he knew Jean had gotten himself into trouble somehow. 

“So I went to Mr Arlert’s the day before yesterday-”

_ “Jean,” _ Bertholdt said sternly. “I thought you said you were going to stop doing that?”

“Just listen,” Jean said. “I went there, and I go in, right, and who do I see but his  _ grandson.” _

“Mr Arlert had a grandson?” Bertholdt looked surprised. 

“Yeah, and he’s living there now,” Jean explained. He went on to tell Bertholdt about their two encounters, what kind of person Armin was, and how he was due to go there after his shift to look through the house. The box of records sat untouched beside them as Bertholdt listened to Jean talk about what happened, and how Armin had agreed to let him play in his cellar. 

“And he really doesn’t mind?” 

“No,” Jean said. “He’s really nice, actually. A bit of a nerd, but not in a bad way. Maybe a bit too trusting, though. I know I wouldn’t have let a total stranger into my house like that.”

“Me neither,” Bertholdt said, realising they’d stopped working and bending down to carry on putting the records away.

“He let me explain myself. I think he gets it.”

“Does he play?”

“I don’t think so,” Jean said, humming. “It would be cool if he did, though. We could get the band back together.”

Bertholdt chuckled, but Jean could tell he didn’t like the idea. He both understood and felt frustrated. Things hadn’t been the same since Mr Arlert died. He was the heart and soul of what they did, the reason why Bertholdt, Reiner and Jean had all met. He’d seen the spark each had for music and had given them the space and resources to become truly passionate. They had chemistry together, and Jean  _ loved _ the music they made as a band, but when Mr Arlert passed… everything fizzled out. Practise sessions became few and further between, and stopped altogether after a month or so. What once had been invigorating now felt lifeless. Jean still played every day, if he could, still practised and found joy in music, but he missed the way it felt when they all played together. He missed that warm, excited feeling in his chest that blossomed when they all got into a groove and the hours of music flew by. Playing the sax wasn’t the same when he didn’t have Bertholdt on bass, or Reiner on drums, and most of all, Mr Arlert on keys. When he came down and played with them, or even just sat back and watched - that was what felt truly special to Jean. 

Jean thought a lot about those old sessions as the minutes ticked by. The last hour went by slowly. Nobody came in, and Bertholdt went to take his lunch, so Jean just sat at the counter, tightening the already-tight screws on his saxophone and looking at his reflection in the well-polished brass while he listened contentedly to the music. Outside, the rain let up a little. The sun came out in patches, brightening up the puddles on the pavement and making the instruments in the window shine.

Bertholdt came back from his lunch break at exactly one o’clock, perfectly on time, like he always was. He looked just as stressed, but a little less tired, at the very least. Jean knew he didn’t have it easy. It made him wish he could do a bit more to help, but he couldn’t afford to volunteer his help more here, not when he needed to take all the shifts he could get as his other job. And he certainly wasn’t the kind of person who was a good shoulder to cry on. The only advice Jean had to give was to go out and play music until you felt better, but knowing Bertholdt’s situation, it wasn’t that easy. 

“Alright, I can take over from here,” Bertholdt said as he shrugged off his coat and wiped his feet on the welcome mat. 

Normally, Jean wouldn’t have minded staying an extra twenty minutes or so, but he was far too excited to get to Mr Arlert’s house. He was already zipping up his saxophone case. 

“Okay,” Jean said, putting his coat on and grinning a little. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“Just don’t get kicked out, and be careful,” Bertholdt said, taking Jean’s place at the counter. 

“I will,” Jean said, rolling his eyes. He made sure not to catch his skin on the clip of his bike helmet as he clicked it into place, and waved goodbye as he left. 

Outside, it was still incredibly cold, but Jean didn’t mind too much. Maybe he could convince Armin to get a fire going in the living room while they worked. The nervous excitement was really starting to kick in as he rode down the streets. He couldn’t wait to finally see the extent of his mentor’s music collection, and if he was honest, he really hoped that Armin wouldn’t mind parting ways with a lot of it, considering he didn’t seem to know much about music at all. 

Instead of riding down the back lane and climbing over the wall, Jean pulled up at the front of the house and once again locked his bike to the lamp-post outside. This time, he took his helmet off before he went inside, and leaned over to check his hair in the rear-view mirror of what he guessed was Armin’s car.

“Hey,” called a voice, and Jean almost jumped out of his skin. Armin was standing at the front door, his head poking out, and he wore a confused expression on his face. “What are you doing?”

“Uh,” Jean said, staring back at him, blushing with the embarrassment of being caught. “Checking my hair?” 

“Oh,” Armin said, stepping out of the house. He had a blanket around his shoulders and was wearing a jumper underneath his dungarees. He still looked cold. “I thought you were trying to break into my car.”

“Why would I be breaking into your car?” Jean asked, still trying to smooth down his hair. He stood at the other end of the small front garden, leaning against the gate. 

“I’m not sure,” Armin said. He had a way of screwing his face up a little when he thought about something, and it fascinated Jean for some reason he couldn’t quite understand. “Maybe that’s a theme with you.”

“Breaking into things?”

Armin laughed a little. “Yeah.”

“Well, I’m invited, today, I hope.”

“Yeah, you are,” Armin said. He looked like he was going to say something else, but stopped himself, looking nervous. “You’re still okay with helping me with this?”

“Yeah, of course. I’ve been looking forward to it,” Jean told him. “Can I come in, though? It’s fucking freezing out here.”

“Oh! Yeah, sorry, come on in.”

Armin stepped aside, letting Jean go in ahead of him, and Jean smiled as he breathed in the familiar smell of the house he loved so much. Finally,  _ finally _ , he was going to be able to see everything. He smiled as he set down his saxophone and took his coat off, making sure to wipe his feet. Mr Arlert had always been particular about making sure the carpet stayed clean.

“Do you want some tea?” Armin asked. 

“Do you have coffee?”

“One second,” Armin said apologetically, ducking into the kitchen to check. “It’s instant, is that alright?”

“Yeah, fine thanks.”

Jean followed Armin into the kitchen, sitting down at the counter and peering around. It was a little awkward, mostly because Jean used to be able to treat this place like a second home, but now that felt inappropriate. 

“It rained pretty heavily earlier, did you get caught in it?” Armin asked. Jean normally hated small talk, especially small talk about the weather, but he indulged Armin just so it wouldn’t be uncomfortable. 

“No, just missed it,” he said, and for all the good he’d tried to do, it was still awkwardly silent. 

Sat in front of him on the kitchen side was an old Russian history book. Jean picked it up and flicked through it while Armin put the kettle on. 

“This looks boring as shit,” he noted, just for something to say. 

“Huh?” Armin asked, turning around and looking a little embarrassed when he saw Jean thumbing through the book. “That? It’s anything but. It’s fascinating, actually.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Jean said.

“It really is!”

“I just said I took your word for it!”

“Yeah, but sarcastically,” Armin said, and Jean smiled and shook his head, knowing he was right. 

“Did you study all this then? Russian history?” 

Armin nodded, his hair bouncing a little as he did. “Yeah. But I’ve always liked reading.”

“Do you like fiction?”

“Yeah,” Armin hummed, turning his back to Jean as he filled up two mugs with boiling water. “Not as much as history and science, though.”

“Wow, you really are a nerd.”

“I thought we came to this conclusion yesterday,” Armin said. Jean hoped he was right in thinking he could hear a smile in Armin’s voice.

“Anyway,” Jean said, changing the subject just because Armin was right. “Have you had a chance to look at anything in here yet?”

“In the house?” Armin asked, and when Jean nodded, he continued. “A little. I was looking at some things this morning. There are so many autobiographies. I never knew so many musicians wrote books.”

“Well, musicians are the most interesting people in the world,” Jean said, looking around at the house. “They have a lot of stories to tell.”

“Is that so…” Armin murmured. He had a far-off look in his eyes as he handed Jean the cup of coffee, and Jean didn’t have to be a genius to guess that he was thinking about his grandfather. 

“It is,” Jean said. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Oh, it’s no problem. Shall we..?” Armin asked. He looked just as eager to start as Jean was. 

“Sure,” Jean said, lifting his mug a little and smiling. “Let’s get started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! It was a pretty descriptive chapter this time, but the next chapter will really kick off the story! I hope you're all safe and well, and if you enjoyed, please consider leaving a review. Each one really makes my day and encourages me to write faster. 
> 
> Thanks again!


	4. Chapter 4

Armin hadn’t invited someone over to his house since he was a kid, so having Jean over… was odd. When he was little, he used to invite his two best friends over all the time. They’d play for hours in his bedroom, or out on the street, riding their bikes down the back lane. When Armin got picked on, they used to both run to his defence, even when he told them he could handle it on his own. The three of them were inseparable, and it felt to Armin like they were going to be friends forever. He couldn’t imagine a world where he didn’t have them, but as time went on, they drifted apart. It would have been horrifying to his younger self, but as he progressed through his teens and the space grew greater between them, Armin accepted it as nothing more than a natural part of getting older. Eren dropped out when he was sixteen, Mikasa moved away, and Armin was left on his own. 

By the time Armin finished secondary school, he didn’t talk to anyone but his parents. All he did was study; he didn’t play music anymore, and he never really went anywhere but to the library. He got into his city’s university, moved into halls, and kept his head down. He had plenty of acquaintances, but nobody he really considered a friend. During second year, he moved into a house with all the other nerds who kept to themselves, and they quietly got along without saying much to each other at all. He’d told himself he liked it that way, that it meant he had more time to study. Armin got by that way fine enough until he got the news about his parents and he realised he had nobody to turn to, no shoulder to cry on or someone to confide in except for one of his lecturers, but even then, it didn’t feel right. 

Clearing out his parents’ home was one of the hardest things he’d ever done, and he did it on his own. He didn’t have anyone to go through all the stuff with, nobody to help him sell the things he couldn’t afford to keep. What little there was, Armin had to sell quickly so the council could start renting the home to someone new. His parents had no assets, no life insurance. All he’d inherited from them was their collection of books and a half-run down car. He had to spend all the money he’d made fixing the thing up because he couldn’t bear the thought of selling it. 

But here he was, now, clearing out the house of another dead relative. This time, he had someone to help him with it though, someone he’d invited over, sort of. Jean was definitely the type who would have invited himself over, anyway, and Armin supposed that he already had been, just before he’d arrived. It felt weird to have someone in his home, his space, but not as weird as the fact that this really _was_ his home. He didn’t see it that way yet, and he wasn’t sure he ever would. 

They went into the living room first. It had patterned, purple wallpaper that was only just visible behind the bookcases that lined the walls, making the room seem smaller than it actually was. Each of them was stacked with books, and they didn’t seem to be arranged in any kind of coherent way. Armin had tried to make sense of the methodology but it seemed like his grandfather had liked the chaos, because there was no logic to the room at all. There were even books stacked lengthways that could fit between the top of the shelf and the books that were already there. There was a rug on the floor with an intricate pattern that clashed with the walls, and in the centre of the room sat an old, oak coffee table that was covered in clutter. It looked like there was only one spot on the sofa where a person could conceivably sit, and even the armchair was piled high with books. Armin would have liked to light the old brick fireplace, but he was worried the room would go up in flames if he did. 

“I don’t know where to start…” Armin murmured. Sometimes, when he was faced with a task this big, he could feel a little overwhelmed. 

“Doesn’t matter where,” Jean said, striding right in, still holding his mug of instant coffee. “Start anywhere, don’t just stand in the doorway.”

“The coffee table,” Armin decided. “Then we’ll have somewhere to put our drinks.”

“Perfect,” Jean said. “Just give me a second, I can’t do this in silence.”

Jean pushed the clutter aside and set his coffee down before going to the corner where an expensive-looking record player sat. There was already a record inside, and Armin didn’t miss the way Jean smiled as he turned it on and that familiar, scratchy sound started up before the music began. 

Armin had never listened to this kind of music before, not really. When he studied, he would usually just turn the radio on and tune it to a classical station, because that was what he had always liked. This was much more modern. Armin had always seen jazz as something loud and exciting and in-your-face, but this was slower, almost calming. He wasn’t sure how to feel about it yet. 

“This is one of my favourites,” Jean said, picking up the record sleeve and looking at it like Armin imagined friends would look at one another. 

“It sounds… nice,” Armin said. 

“Nice?” Jean laughed. “It’s been on for twenty seconds, don’t have an opinion about it yet. I always think it takes a good four or five listens before I can decide how I feel about a piece of music.”

“Oh,” Armin said, his eyebrows furrowing a little as he thought about what Jean said.

“But come on,” Jean said. “Let’s get started.”

Jean knelt down on the floor, took a sip of his coffee, and picked up the first book in a pile that reminded Armin of a Jenga tower. He already looked engrossed. Armin was nervous, but just as intrigued as Jean. He sat down on the opposite side of the table, picking up a folded piece of paper that when opened revealed the sheet music for a piece of music Armin didn’t recognise. He already felt out of his depth, and Armin hoped Jean wasn’t the kind of person who would be judgemental of his lack of knowledge. Armin hated feeling ignorant. Knowledge was all he _had._ He hadn’t read music in years, and although he did know how to, he was certain he wasn’t nearly as well-versed as Jean was. 

“What do you have there?” Jean asked. Armin reluctantly handed the sheet music over, and Jean chuckled. 

“What’s so funny?” Armin asked. 

Jean set the piece of paper down and rolled his eyes. 

“I always told him not to photocopy sheet music,” he said. “He never listened, though.”

“What’s wrong with photocopying it?”

“Nothing, I guess,” Jean said, going through and picking out all the other sheets of paper with badly photocopied music. “Not unless you’re distributing it, which he wasn’t. I just told him to stop doing it because he left the sheets around all the time. Plus, he was bad at it.”

“I can see that,” Armin smiled, picking up a piece which had almost half of the page cut off, and it was all wonky. As he thought, he sighed a little, saddened that he hadn’t gotten to meet his grandfather. “Um... what was-”

“Oh my god,” Jean interrupted, picking up a folder and laughing loudly. “I remember this!”

Armin looked over curiously for a second. Jean was smiling as he flipped through the old folder, which was full of notes from years ago. It was about him and the other boys. Armin listened, but he couldn’t help but feel upset that he’d missed out on so much. 

They worked together for a little while. Jean helped Armin pile up all the badly-copied music to get rid of. Armin tucked away the snippets of paper that had handwritten notes from his grandfather on, and Jean seemed like he was pretending not to notice. 

“So,” Jean said after maybe forty minutes had gone by. “How are you finding it here?”

“In the city, or in this house?” Armin asked, putting down the book he’d accidentally gotten distracted by. 

“Both, but start with the city,” Jean said. Armin liked how decisive he was. He really was interesting, in a way he couldn’t quite pinpoint. There was an energy to him that Armin was drawn to. 

“It’s… it’s really similar to where I grew up,” Armin said. 

“How so?”

“It’s boring?” Armin offered, and that made Jean laugh. 

“Yeah, it _is_ boring,” Jean sighed. “But there are some really cool places if you know where to look. I’ll have to show you sometime.”

They made eye contact, something Armin usually avoided, and he looked away quickly when he felt his stomach turn with a sudden, anxious feeling. 

“My city was like that too,” Armin said, going back to the organising of the books on the shelves so he had an excuse to turn his back and not look at Jean. “There was a tiny bookstore on the street next to mine. You wouldn’t have known it was there if you weren’t looking for it. It was so full of different books… it kind of reminds me of this place.”

“So it was a mess?” Jean asked. 

“Yeah,” Armin smiled, fondly thinking back to the place and how he’d managed to buy discount textbooks there. “It was a complete mess. But it was interesting.”

“You like interesting things?” 

“Who doesn’t?”

“Plenty of people,” Jean said assuredly. “You’d be surprised just how many people are actually really boring.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Armin said. “They’re boring to _you,_ maybe. You find history boring. I find music boring. Everyone’s different.”

“What?!” Jean exclaimed, walking over to him. “You can’t just say music is _boring,_ that’s impossible, you can’t - why are you laughing?”

“I was joking,” Armin said, rolling his eyes a little as he chuckled. “I don’t actually think that.”

He peeked over at Jean and laughed again, finding it funny that he was so worked up. 

“You’re sick,” Jean said, though he was laughing too. “You’re sick in the head. Don’t joke about that.”

Armin snickered, but as he looked around the room again, he realised that they hadn’t made much of a dent in the mess at all. He didn’t know what he was supposed to _do_ with all this stuff. It wasn’t like he had many of his own things that needed to replace the clutter, but he felt… strange, like he was taking over somehow. 

“And how about here, then? In the house?” Jean asked, like he could read Armin’s mind. Armin paused while he tried to figure out how to answer. 

“It’s strange,” he murmured honestly, biting on his bottom lip a little. Jean got up, and leaned against the bookcase, not letting Armin avoid the question, forcing him to look at him. He had really intense, narrow eyes. 

“How so?” He prodded. Armin could feel his eyes burning into him, even though Jean seemed relaxed.

“It’s strange in every sense of the word,” Armin said, looking up for just a second before letting his eyes flicker back down to look at the floor. “I didn’t even know my grandfather existed until I got the letter.”

He paused, but Jean just motioned for him to keep talking. 

“Why would he leave this place to me, but never even contact me before he died? I’d understand if it went to me because I was the next of kin, but it was in his will. I don’t _get_ it.”

“He never mentioned you,” Jean said honestly. “I only heard about you after he died.”

For some reason, Armin appreciated that. He could tell Jean wasn’t lying, and he liked that he respected him enough to not coddle him with lies about how his grandfather talked about him all the time. 

“Yeah,” Armin breathed. It wasn’t exactly a mystery, but Armin really wanted to know the thought process behind why his grandfather had seemingly kept him a secret. 

“But I’ll tell you one thing,” Jean said. His voice sounded a lot more serious now. “When, uh… when it happened? It was really quick. It’s possible that he might have been, you know, trying. Or at least _thinking_ about it, and he never got the chance. He… got sick out of the blue, and then he was just _gone._ ”

Armin felt his eyes stinging when he considered that, and he didn’t need to look at Jean to know that he was getting a little emotional too. 

“Sorry,” Armin sniffed. “I don’t know what I’m getting all upset about. I never even knew him.”

Armin felt Jean’s eyes on him, but whatever he was thinking, he kept to himself. Swallowing down his emotion and wiping away a few stray tears, he offered Jean a little smile. 

“What are your plans, then?” Jean asked. Armin was grateful that he was offering him a way out of that uncomfortable conversation. “With all this stuff, I mean?”

“I want to go through it,” Armin said. “I don’t know what to _do_ with it all, but I know I want to see it all. I want to read all these books, too.”

“All of them?”

“If I can.”

“You’re a lot like him, I’ll give you that,” Jean said, and it made Armin nearly start crying again. “That’s a compliment, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Armin murmured. 

“Also, yeah. I’d like to look through all this stuff, too. I bothered him for so long about letting me see, and we… well, we never got the chance.”

“You did, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“You came here a lot after he passed, didn’t you? You had a key. You could have gone through it whenever you wanted to.”

Jean opened his mouth and closed it again, his eyes squinting a little as he thought. 

“You’re not _wrong_ ,” he said slowly. “But… I guess it wouldn’t have felt right. I guess it would have been an invasion of privacy. Now I have permission.”

Their eyes met again, and it was in that exact moment Armin knew he trusted Jean, really trusted him. And from the way Jean was looking at him, Armin suspected he felt the same.

* * *

The rain started up again around an hour later, pouring down much harder than it had that morning. They mentioned it briefly, but the main focus of their conversation revolved around the various things Jean pointed out and showed to Armin. Armin had to keep taking off his glasses to clean them because moving all the stuff around kicked up so much dust. Jean told him the stories that apparently, his grandfather used to tell over and over. It seemed to Armin that his grandfather had been even more passionate and excitable about music than Jean was, and judging by the extension of his collection, he was sure he was right. 

Armin noticed how Jean kept glancing out of the window at the darkening clouds as the afternoon ticked by and the sun began to set. It got dark early, and by the time five o’clock rolled around, it was pitch black outside. Armin had been working on organising the books on the shelves in alphabetical order, and he discovered that there were duplicate copies of a lot of the books. Sometimes, there were even three of the same edition, and it left Armin a little confused, but he was mainly just glad that progress was being made, at least in this room. He put the doubles into a separate pile on the floor, and looked over at Jean, thinking. 

“Hey,” Armin said. 

“What’s up?” Jean asked, peering over at him. 

“I don’t really know what to do with these,” Armin said, gesturing to the books on the floor. “Do you… would you want them?”

Jean’s face lit up, and he looked a little taken aback. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, of course,” Armin said honestly. “I… don’t need doubles. I’d be happy for you to have them.”

Jean came over, sitting down cross-legged by the pile of books and looking through them, a huge smile on his face. 

“Thank you,” he said, sounding touched, and it made Armin feel strange inside, though he attributed that emotion to having not felt genuine friendship in so long. 

“It’s nothing,” he smiled, the warmth in his chest spreading through his body. 

“I… hm. I won’t be able to take them today, though. I won’t be able to take them while I’m cycling. And it looks like it’s going to rain, so-”

“I can drive you,” Armin said quickly, without even realising he was going to say it. That wasn’t like him at _all._ Why would Jean want him to do that? It was a weird thing to ask, of course he wouldn’t say yes. He might even just leave right-

“As long as you can fit my bike in your car?” Jean asked as he stood back up, interrupting Armin’s thoughts. “That would be great.”

“Oh,” Armin said, his face feeling hot suddenly, and he nodded. “That - that should be fine.”

“Perfect,” Jean grinned, looking relieved. “The drive there is kind of annoying, but it’s pretty.”

“That’s fine,” Armin said. “I like driving.”

“You do? I hate it.”

Armin shrugged. “I like going to new places.”

“My village is pretty small,” Jean said, humming. “But it seems like the kind of place I think you’d like.”

“Oh?” Armin asked. He was curious about what Jean thought he liked, considering they had only met a few days ago. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, it’s right on the ocean. You said you liked the ocean, right?” Jean said, and Armin nodded, touched that he remembered. “It’s small, and kind of weird… just odd, really. You seem like you like that stuff. And it’s got a lot of history.”

If Armin felt like his cheeks were hot before, they were burning now. He wasn’t used to people actually paying attention to him. For the first time in years, he felt _seen_ , and he didn’t hate it. 

“Yeah…” he mumbled. “You’re exactly right.”

“I knew it,” Jean said triumphantly. “Do you have a box I can put these in?”

“Yes,” Armin said. “Up in my room. I still have my moving boxes.”

“Want me to get it…?” 

“No, you’re fine. I’ll go.”

Armin excused himself quickly, heading upstairs, taking a second to dip into the bathroom before he did anything else. Looking at himself in the mirror, he could see that his entire face was red, all the way down his neck and to his ears, too. He took off his glasses, splashed water on his face, and sighed when he saw that it hadn’t helped at all. A few deep breaths later, he went to grab a cardboard box from his room, glad to be rid of it. He could always get more later. 

“Here. I think one should be fine, but in case you needed… are you alright?” Armin asked, a little taken aback to see Jean sat on the sofa looking teary-eyed. 

“Huh?” Jean asked, sitting up and looking mortified, like he’d been caught doing something wrong. He put down the record he was holding like it had burned his hands, and wiped his eyes. “Yeah! Yeah, I’m good.”

Armin put the box down and walked over, picking up the record curiously. 

“What’s this?” He asked.

“My favourite record,” Jean said, smiling sadly at it. Armin looked between it and Jean when he realised it was signed, a message made out to his grandfather on the front. 

“Shall we listen to it?” He asked. 

“No,” Jean said quickly, shaking his head. “No, it, uh, it’s not… the right atmosphere.”

Armin took one look at him and knew he wasn’t telling the whole truth, but he didn’t push it. He could tell Jean was a little emotional, and it made sense; he’d known his grandfather for years. Going through his house after he’d passed wasn’t easy for Armin, and he’d never even met him, so he knew it was definitely harder for Jean.

“Do you want to, um…” Armin started, going to change the subject, and trailing off again, embarrassed to ask. 

“Yeah?”

“Do you want to stay for dinner?” Armin asked quickly. 

“Oh,” Jean said. He looked out of the window. “I…. should probably have dinner at home, I need to cook for my mum.”

“Oh. Okay. That’s fine,” Armin said, trying not to look or sound disappointed. 

“Next time?”

Armin felt his stomach lurch when Jean said that, and he turned his back quickly so he couldn’t see the look on his face. 

“Sure,” he said. “When… is next time?”

Armin heard Jean stand up before he spoke, and he watched him walk over and start packing the books into the box. 

“How about next week?” He asked. “I’m working a lot in the next couple of days and over the weekend, but after that I should be fine. I can cook, if you want, seeing as you’re nice enough to let me help with this.”

“No, I appreciate the help,” Armin said. “Next week is good for me, too.”

“Then it’s a thank you for the books, and for driving me home,” Jean said. 

_So stubborn,_ Armin thought affectionately, giving in. 

“Did you want to play before we go?” He asked. “I saw you brought your sax.”

“Shit, yeah, I totally forgot,” Jean laughed. “Mind if I go now? I’ll be quick, half an hour max.”

“There’s no rush, go ahead. I can finish up here.”

“See you in forty then.”

“See you.”

Armin watched as Jean made his way outside, running through the rain to the cellar door, covering his head with his saxophone case in a way that was oddly endearing to Armin, though he tried to push those thoughts from his mind. When he went back into the living room, he sat on the floor between the cardboard box and the pile of books, slowly organising them so they fit optimally inside. He re-read each cover, flicking over the pages.

His stomach felt tight, and Armin was emotional, especially when he heard music drifting up from the cellar. He turned the record they’d been listening to off so he could hear Jean better, his heart beating a little faster. He tried to understand what he was feeling, but he couldn’t quite manage; there was something strange that Armin didn’t quite get, that he couldn’t put his finger on. It frustrated him. Armin liked to understand everything, like to know how things worked, and not being able to work out his own emotions left him feeling a little helpless. He knew that he liked having Jean around, and that he wanted them to be friends. Why did it feel like there was more to it than that? Why did Armin like it so much when Jean looked at him? 

Armin looked over to the couch and saw the record sitting there, and he couldn’t resist picking it up, tracing his finger over the autograph on the front, then turning back to the pile of books. He… could give it to Jean, couldn’t he? There were hundreds of records here. He wouldn’t miss one, and it was Jean’s favourite... Armin wanted him to have it, so he sneaked it into the box where he wouldn’t notice, sliding it between the books. He had a feeling Jean would have refused it if he offered. 

When he was done, Armin made a cup of tea, grabbed a book, and sat with his legs up on the sofa while he waited for Jean to finish up. It was close to an hour before the sounds of sax music stopped, and Armin waited with anticipation for Jean to come back, his heart beating just a little faster. He tried to sit naturally on the sofa and not look weird, but it was like he’d forgotten how to act - he felt weird and awkward, so instead, Armin busied himself with putting his shoes on. 

“Hey,” Jean said, and even though Armin knew he was coming, his voice still made him jump. “You ready?”

“Almost,” Armin said. “I packed up the box but I, uh, I can’t lift it.”

“No worries,” Jean grinned. “I’ll get it, if you’d take my sax?”

“Are - are you sure? What if I drop it?”

“Then I’ll sue you,” Jean said. Armin knew he was joking, but his heart was still racing, terrified that he might damage it somehow, even though the walk from the door to the car was short. 

“Don’t say that, you’re making my hands shake,” Armin murmured, his hair falling over his face. 

“Don’t be silly,” Jean said. “Here, take it.”

He handed Armin his saxophone case and clapped him on the shoulder, then picked up the box of books like it weighed nothing. Armin tried not to stare as he took it out, following behind Armin. They scurried to the car quickly, not wanting to stay out in the freezing cold rain any longer than they had to, and Armin put Jean’s sax unscathed in the boot before helping him jam his bike into the backseat. It fit in well enough that Armin could still see through the rear-view mirror, and once they were in the car he turned up the heater all the way, shivering. Jean got in the front, and being so close to him did nothing to help Armin’s nerves. 

“Mind if I…?” Jean asked as Armin pulled out of the street, gesturing to the radio. 

“Go ahead,” Armin told him, and Jean turned it on, grinning a little. Armin focused on the road, staring straight ahead and definitely not sneaking glances to his left. Classical music came on, the radio still tuned to the same station Armin had been listening to when he made the drive here from his old town. 

“Classical?” Jean asked, eyebrow raised. “I should have known.”

“What do you mean?” Armin asked him. 

“You just seem like the type,” Jean said, turning it up a little. 

“You’re not going to change it?”

“Why would I? It’s your car. I made you listen to what I chose all afternoon.”

Armin smiled, finding that he liked Jean more and more every time he spoke. “Where do I go from here?”

“Head to the city centre,” Jean directed. “Then I’ll tell you how to get to the ferry. We have to take it across the river, unless you want to take the extra twenty minutes to go across the bridge.”

“The boat’s fine,” Armin said, focusing on driving. 

When they reached the ferry, they made it just in time to catch the boat as it left, driving up next to all the other cars. Jean fished some change out of his pocket to give to the rain-soaked collector as he passed, and gave some extra to Armin so he could get the ferry back, too. They chugged across the water, and Armin kept the motor running so the radio stayed on and the windscreen wipers kept going, wanting to look out and see the river where it met the ocean. He didn’t notice, but Jean was smiling at him. 

The rest of the drive was along the coast, on winding, clifftop paths with little to stop a careless driver from skidding right off. Armin loved the way the waves hit the rocks at the bottom of the cliffs far below them, though Jean was gripping the handle above him so hard his knuckles were turning white. 

“This is why I hate driving,” Jean murmured. He was a pale shade of green. 

“It’s exciting,” Armin said. 

“You’re crazy. You’re worried about carrying my sax down the path, but _this_ is fine?” 

“When you put it like that…” Armin laughed. He felt _alive_ , though, excited to be somewhere new. Armin was a good driver - he was methodical, practical, and he always paid attention, so he found it fun to take his little car along the winding paths with the ocean wreaking havoc below. He made sure to memorise the route so he wouldn’t get lost on the way home, but it was so lovely out here, even in the rain, that Armin wasn’t sure he would have minded getting lost at all. 

It didn’t take long before Armin saw a small splattering of lights in the distance and saw Jean’s village approaching. It was perched right on the ocean in a way that excited Armin more than he could explain, the kind of place where he had dreamed of living when he was younger. It reminded him of trips to the beach, of buying a postcard even though he had nobody to send it to, of pocketing shells and taking them home to put on his windowsill like trophies. 

Armin was in awe as they drove down the narrow streets, taking it slowly so he didn’t roll up onto the curb. He adored the mismatched houses, all different heights and different colours, sandbags placed on doorsteps to protect from flooding. 

“Told you you’d like it,” Jean said, looking over and smiling at him. Armin smiled back, nodding. 

“It’s lovely,” he agreed. 

“You should see it when the weather’s nice,” Jean said, and Armin wasn’t sure if that was an invitation or not. He wasn’t great at reading social cues like that. “Just turn left here.”

Armin nodded, and he pulled up when Jean told him to, parking next to a large house that was overhanging the sea. The tide was in, and the waves were almost hitting the windows. Armin breathed out in awe. 

“This is where you live?” 

“Yeah, for now,” Jean said. 

“Your house is amazing.” Armin looked over, and saw that there were no lights on. “Is your mum not in?”

“Nah, she’s in,” Jean said. “She just has to have the place dark all the time. She, uh… she gets migraines.” 

Armin was learning that Jean ran his hand through his hair when he wasn’t telling the whole truth, but he didn’t push what he knew wasn’t his business.

As Armin pulled his hood up and helped Jean get his stuff out of the car, there was a sad feeling in his chest, and he realised with a bit of surprise that it was because he didn’t want Jean to go. He had enjoyed the company more than he’d expected to, and he was realising that it wasn’t just because he’d been so lonely before, but also because he really liked Jean. He was funny, surprisingly kind, and Armin enjoyed it when he talked so passionately about music. Not to mention how much he loved hearing Jean’s playing from the cellar while he read. 

“I really owe you one for driving me back,” Jean said, using his coat to cover the books in the box so they didn’t get wet, and letting himself become soaked in the process. 

“It’s okay,” Armin said, thinking about the record he’d slipped in. He took Jean’s sax and followed him down the steps to the front door, waiting as Jean got the box inside before handing it to him. 

For a moment, they stood awkwardly at the doorstep, the pouring rain filling in the silence. 

“I should be the one thanking you,” Armin said. “I really appreciate it.”

“No, like I said, it’s my pleasure,” Jean told him. “Stop thanking me, alright?”

“Alright,” Armin said, smiling just a little. “I ought to get back.”

“You remember the way?”

“Yeah,” Armin said, going to thank him again, and catching himself. He knew he had to leave, to turn around and go back to his car, though some strange part of him wanted Jean to invite him in. 

“Okay. Well, I’ll see you later, alright?” Jean said, and Armin was disappointed even though he knew he shouldn’t be.

“Okay,” Armin said, taking one last look before turning back to go home, wondering when later would be, and hoping it was soon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say a quick thank you to everyone who has been reading and leaving so much love on my fics recently! It's been so amazing to see each and every new comment and kudos, it really makes me smile. It's been hard recently - I'm in lockdown away from my family, and not being able to see them has been affecting me a lot. But reading your comments and writing this fic has been such a wonderful respite. Thank you all SO much. Even if you're a silent reader, I appreciate you and I hope that my fics can be a nice distraction for a little while. I hope you're all staying safe and healthy! Love you guys!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone. Before we get to the chapter, I’d like to take a second to talk about the current state of the world and use my privilege and platform to raise awareness. 
> 
> Jazz and the other genres of music in this fic were invented by and would not exist without black musicians. As someone who grew up playing jazz, swing and funk every day, I owe so much of my life and happiness to the incredible musicians that pioneered these genres in the face of injustice. We must continue to fight against racism, discrimination and violence. Black Lives Matter is not a trend, it is a fact, and a movement that we cannot let fade into the background. It should be on all of our minds. Black dreams matter. Black futures matter. Black art matters. 
> 
> Black lives matter. 
> 
> At the end of this chapter, you can find a list of links to support the BLM movement, as well as black musicians and LGBT community. Additionally, if you would like to commission me, 100% of your money will go to a charity of your choice. Details can be found on my pinned post on Tumblr (@vidnyia), or by emailing me at vidnyia@gmail.com . 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy the chapter.

Over the weekend, the rain made itself a home over the city. It would fall for hours without stopping, the kind that would leave you soaked through. Whenever it looked as if a patch of blue and some sun would peer through the clouds, more would form and the rain would come down again. Walks to the shop took twice as long, as they normally did; Armin had to forgo any protection from the elements, as the wind would blow his hood off and turn his umbrella inside out. He’d come home with drenched shopping and even wetter hair, and in his new, large house, it was hard to shake the cold. Armin was reluctant to use too much heating due to the cost, but he’d often cave and huddle up to the radiator in the evenings, a book and steaming cup of tea in his hands. 

All he really did was read. Armin had told himself he was going to start looking for a job, and he had… for a short while. Scanning over the newspaper for available positions had somehow turned into filling out the crossword puzzle, then the sudoku, until Armin had finished the entire puzzle page, and then all of a sudden, he found himself picking up a book again. He was leaning about music in an attempt to… impress wasn’t the right word, but Armin knew he didn’t want to seem ignorant or foolish in front of Jean. Jean just seemed to know so _much_. Learning about different things he hadn’t picked up on when he was younger was fascinating. He learned about modes and scales and the circle of fifths, about counterpoint and Bach, and on more than one occasion over the weekend Armin had decided to read for twenty minutes or so and found himself still holding the book hours later. 

On Sunday evening, Armin had a sore back and eye strain from reading all day. While his dinner bubbled away at the stove, he found himself with nothing to do, so thought he would get started in the dining room, and clear and organise some of the mess there. Armin let himself in, still feeling like a visitor, and shut the door behind him before standing against it. It was even more cramped in here than it was in the living room, not only because the space was smaller, but because of the large piano in the centre of the room that had taken the place of a dining table. It was made of dark wood, shiny and perfect to the touch. Just looking at it made Armin nostalgic for those times when he would sneak into the music room as a child, sitting on the stool with his legs dangling because they couldn’t reach the pedals yet. It was a lonely feeling, one that made him miss his friends and the times they had back then. 

Just like he had the first time, Armin let his fingers rest on the keys without pressing them. The room was so full of things it almost felt like he had company; it made Armin shy. He didn’t believe in an afterlife, but it was like he could  _ feel _ his grandfather watching him, maybe even judging him, just from the sheer presence his belongings gave off. The house always radiated so much personality, it was stifling at times, and it made Armin seize up. He wanted to play, he really did, but something was holding him back. He didn’t want to be  _ bad _ at it - the thought of failing at something like music gave Armin so much anxiety that he thought it was better not to try at all. He would stick to his books, his academia, the things he knew he was good at, so he wouldn’t have to feel so ashamed at the thought that maybe, if he was alive, his grandfather wouldn’t have liked him anyway. 

Armin shut the lid to the piano gently, not wanting to disturb the uneasy silence of the room. He got up, brushing off the dust that had already settled on his trousers, and looked around at everything - all of the items and memorabilia, the pictures hanging lopsided in their frames, and out of the small window that offered the grey view of the street. It suddenly felt  _ wrong _ , far too wrong, to be in there. Without Jean, Armin felt like he was intruding. He missed all of his talking, and the records he would put on, and the stories about his grandfather he would tell. Armin knew it was silly to miss someone he had only met just a week or so ago, but all in all, he missed  _ company.  _ The only person he had spoken to over the weekend was the tall blonde guy that worked at the store, the one that was always tapping his pen against the till. He seemed to recognise Armin, now, giving him a nod and exchanging small talk as he shopped.

On Monday morning, the rain finally broke. There was no rainbow or blue sky, and the sun didn’t shine over the city - the storm had just given way to normal, overcast weather, but it was good. Armin shouldered his backpack and decided to go and poke around some of the charity shops for old furniture or books. If he was lucky, he’d find a good raincoat. 

Armin walked to the city centre with a lump in his throat. When he was younger, his mum would take him out to the charity shops, letting him pick out a book or a toy. All his clothes were second hand - even if Armin was teased for it as a kid, he had never seen the sense in buying something new. He liked to imagine the lives of the people who wore his clothes before him, wondering what they were up to now - Armin just loved the history of it all. 

He browsed for a while, making sure to keep an eye out for any signs for vacancies in the windows of the regular shops he passed. He picked up a few things, like an old mug that looked similar to the ones he had that belonged to his parents, a thread-worn jumper, and a pair of boots that were a little too big. Even though he wasn’t getting any taller anymore, Armin had never really gotten out of the mindset that he would grow into clothes that were too big for him. 

Although he didn’t get a raincoat, by the time noon rolled around, Armin was happy with all of the things he had managed to find. His backpack sat heavily on his shoulders, full of things that Armin hoped would make the house feel more like his own. He was hungry, so Armin decided to eat out for once, deciding to treat himself a little bit, even if he knew he’d feel guilty for spending the money afterwards. 

On the outskirts of the city centre, Armin found a small cafe tucked away in a spot where he almost didn’t notice it, and he was about to cross the street to go inside when a shout made him almost jump out of his skin. 

“Armin!” The voice called, and Armin knew who it was instantly, because Jean was the only person in this city that actually knew his name. 

Jean came running over, waving, and Armin was struck with the thought that it was the first time he had seen him outside without a saxophone case on his back. Looking at him now, his shoulders were broader than Armin had thought before. 

“Hi,” Armin said as Jean slowed to a stop beside him. For a second they stood awkwardly, looking at each other like they didn’t know what to say. 

“How’s it going?” Jean asked. They both stepped to the side in unison as a woman with a pram pushed past on the narrow street. 

“Fine,” Armin said honestly. “I was just going to get some lunch.”

“Me too!” Jean grinned. “Were you going here?” 

“Yeah,” Armin nodded. “Sorry, I can go somewhere else if it’s -”

“What? Why would I want you to do that? Just come sit with me, idiot. My treat.”

“No, that’s -”

“You think I didn’t notice that record you slipped in there?” Jean interrupted again. “I said it’s my treat.”

Armin opened his mouth to argue with Jean again, but he closed it just as quickly, knowing that he was right. Jean didn’t bother waiting until the light was red before crossing the road, and Armin quickly followed after him, not wanting to be left behind as they made their way into the cafe. 

It wasn’t busy inside - only two tables were occupied of around five in total, but even then, the space was so cramped it was a little claustrophobic anyway. The radio was playing, mixing with the sounds of chatter and forks scraping plates. 

“Go sit down,” Jean told him. “What do you want?”

“Any sandwich is fine,” Armin replied. “Are you sure you don’t want me to -”

“Just sit down,” Jean told him. “I’ll be there in a second.”

Armin did as Jean told him, not wanting to be annoying. He chose a seat in the corner, away from everyone else. He read over the menu while he waited, not because he wanted to order something different, but just because he tended to need to focus on something to stop himself from getting overwhelmingly bored. He was halfway down the soups when Jean interrupted by placing a plate down in front of him. 

“I got you a pot of tea as well, they’re going to bring it over in a second,” he said. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Armin told him, though he was touched by the gesture. 

“I know I didn’t.”

“Well… thank you.”

“I should be the one saying that,” Jean replied. 

“What for?” 

“You know what for.”

“The record?”

“Yeah, the record. Why did you do that?”

Armin paused when he said that, holding his sandwich without taking a bite. 

“Because… you liked it,” he said. “And I didn’t need it, but it seemed special to you.”

“It is,” Jean said. Armin didn’t normally make eye contact if he could help it, but when he looked up at Jean, he was staring out of the window. “But you shouldn’t have given it to me.”

“Why not?” 

“Because it was yours.”

“So I should be able to do whatever I want with it.”

“That’s not -” Jean started, his tone a little exasperated. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

“I just don’t understand why you would give something to me like that for free.”

“It’s a thank you, then, for helping me out,” Armin bargained. 

Jean sighed. “I told you, it’s not like I’m being altruistic by getting to look through all of that stuff.”

“Just accept the gift,” Armin said, and Jean seemed to relent a little. “Thank you.”

The atmosphere changed a little after that, not quite tense, but not exactly comfortable. Armin busied himself by looking over the menu again while he ate - anything to keep his eyes off Jean.

“Anyway,” Jean said after a while. “What were you doing out in town?”

Armin had taken a bite as soon as Jean started to speak, so he had to chew quickly, the awkward pause stretching out ridiculously long. 

“I was just charity shopping,” Armin said. “I needed a new coat.”

“You find one?”

“No, but I found some other stuff for a really good deal,” Armin said. 

“Your grandfather loved charity shopping,” Jean said, and Armin wasn’t sure if he was crazy, or if he heard a hint of fondness in Jean’s voice as he spoke. 

“Who doesn’t?” He asked. 

“Me,” Jean said. “Charity shop clothes smell weird.”

“That’s why you wash them,” Armin said, which got a laugh out of Jean for some reason. 

“Yeah, true,” he said. He checked his watch and sighed. 

“Are you on your lunch break?” Armin asked. 

“Yeah,” Jean said. “Bertholdt said I could take it early, because Reiner came in.”

“Is that your other friend?” 

“Yeah,” Jean said. “He plays - played drums with us.”

“Oh, right.”

“You want to come back and meet the other guys?” Jean asked. “I’m sure they’d like to meet you.”

Something about that made Armin’s stomach turn, and Jean seemed to notice, a frown appearing on his face. “They don’t bite,” he insisted. 

“I don’t know…” Armin said. If he was worried about not knowing enough about music in front of  _ Jean _ , what was it going to be like in front of his friends, one of whom  _ owned _ a music shop? 

“Just for a little while,” Jean said. “Reiner’s like a big brother to everyone, and Bertholdt is probably shyer than you are, so you’re fine.”

Armin paused and thought about it for a second, and looked down at the food Jean bought for him before giving in. “Okay,” he relented. 

“Perfect,” Jean grinned, and Armin had the fleeting thought that the smile on Jean’s face had already made agreeing worth it.

* * *

They finished up their food and headed back out into the gloomy afternoon.

“At least it’s not raining,” Jean said as he looked up at the sky. “I fucking hate rain. I had to start putting a change of clothes in my bag to take to work, just because I keep getting soaked through before I even arrive.”

“Surely driving is better than that,” Armin said. “You must be freezing by the time you get there.”

“It’s not so bad. All the cycling warms me up. I’d still rather that than have to worry about driving my car off the cliff.”

“Are you that bad at driving?” Armin asked, teasing just a little. 

“No, I’m a great driver,” Jean said. “It’s other people I’m worried about. What if some asshole comes speeding around the corner and knocks us both off? No thanks.”

“Does that happen a lot here?”

“Well… no, but I’m not taking any chances,” Jean said, then pointed to the end of the street. “It’s just there. Just come in for a second, and you can have a look at some of our stuff too.”

Armin swallowed nervously. 

“Okay,” he murmured, fiddling with the strap on his backpack. He followed Jean, failing to keep up with his long strides as he seemed to get more and more excited. He had to take two steps to keep up with every one of Jean’s. 

Jean held the door open for him, and Armin was surprised to see that there was nobody inside. It was a small shop, or maybe it seemed that way because of the amount packed inside of it. There were instruments that Armin didn’t even recognise. He guessed that his grandfather must have come here all the time, and probably stood in the exact same spot he was right now at some point. 

“Bertholdt?” Jean frowned, stepping past him to go behind the till, and right as he was about to open the door to the back room, it burst open and two large men came tumbling out. They both had incredibly red faces and despite the cold weather, Armin could tell they had both been sweating. Both of them were tall, even taller than Jean somehow - broader, too. Armin instantly recognised the shorter, stockier one as the blond guy who worked at the corner shop down the street from his house. 

“Jean!” said the man Armin presumed to be Bertholdt. “You’re - you’re back early!”

“...Yeah,” Jean said, his eyes narrowing. “You guys alright?”

“Fine! We were just - I just… I needed Reiner’s help lifting some boxes,” Bertholdt said. He shook his hands out and Jean stepped back so he could sit down at the counter, still looking flushed and nervous. Armin felt both awkward and out of place, but, he thought, when didn’t he? 

“Right,” Jean said. “One of you needs to keep an eye on the shop, though. I’m so sick of kids trying to shoplift in here.”

Bertholdt nodded. Armin noted that he didn’t make eye contact with Jean once, and thought that Jean was definitely right about him being shy, too. 

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Right, of course. I just -”

“Hey,” the blond man said, walking towards Armin, recognition in his eyes. “I know you, don’t I?”

“Uh, yeah, sort… sort of?” Armin said, looking up and realising just how short he was next to him. 

“Wait, what?” Jean asked. “You do?”

“He comes into the shop,” Reiner explained. 

“He’s Mr Arlert’s grandson,” Jean said. 

“What? No way!” Reiner exclaimed. “That’s  _ you? _ What do you play?”

Armin cringed, feeling embarrassed. His stomach twisted with discomfort, not wanting to admit it. 

“I don’t… I can’t play any instruments,” he said. What he had taught himself on the piano years ago surely didn’t count anymore, especially as he didn’t even have the courage to try and take it up again. 

“Oh,” Reiner said, and Armin could tell he hadn’t expected that. He felt so horribly nervous - he knew this was going to happen, and he wished he hadn’t agreed to come with Jean. 

“I’ll teach him sometime,” Jean said, waving his hand. 

“It’s never too late to learn, Mr Arlert used to say that all the time,” Bertholdt pointed out. Armin decided he liked him right there and then, but that did nothing to take away from how nervous he was. 

“Exactly,” Jean said. “Maybe then we can get the band back together…”

“Jean…” Bertholdt sighed. “You know I want to, but -”

“Yeah, no… I know,” Jean said. “You guys are busy.”

Armin suddenly felt even more uncomfortable than he had before. He could feel the tension in the air as the silence stretched on and on; he felt like he was walking in on something he wasn’t supposed to see. There was obviously history there that he didn’t know, and although Armin wanted to, he wouldn’t ask what it was. 

“Well, it was nice to meet you,” Reiner said, looking down at him again. Armin didn’t know if he was seeing things correctly or if he was too caught up in his head, but he felt incredibly unwelcome all of a sudden. 

“You too,” Armin replied. “I should probably be going, so -”

“Wait!” Jean said quickly. “Tomorrow. What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Armin said, finding yet another thing to feel humiliated by. “Why?”

“Can I come help with some more of the house? I have the day off.”

“Oh, um… yeah, of course,” Armin nodded. “What time?”

“As early as you want.”

“Eleven?”

Jean nodded, enthusiastic as ever. “Perfect. I’ll see you then.”

“He’ll be early,” Bertholdt piped up, and Jean rolled his eyes at him. 

“Don’t listen to him. I’ll be there at eleven.”

“Okay,” Armin said. All he really wanted was to get out of there. “It, um, it was nice to meet you guys.”

“You too,” Reiner said, nodding to him. Armin wondered if there were any other shops he could go to from now on, just to avoid the embarrassment and awkwardness. 

“Bye!” Bertholdt called, and Armin waved back awkwardly as he left the shop, the uncomfortable feeling creeping over him that they were going to talk about him as soon as he left.

* * *

True to Bertholdt’s word, Jean arrived early the next morning. At ten-fifty, Armin heard a knock at the door, and he opened it to see Jean standing there with his sax case on his back and a grin on his face. 

“Morning,” he said cheerfully, and Armin couldn’t help but return a small smile as Jean walked past him into the house. 

“Good morning,” Armin replied. He felt a little better already. All he’d done that morning was wait for Jean to arrive. He led Jean into the kitchen and put on the kettle. They made idle chatter for a while as Armin made tea, talking, typically, about how the weather had cleared up. 

“So I was thinking,” Jean said, leaning back. “If we’re doing the dining room, would it be alright if I chose a few records for you to listen to?”

Armin turned back to look at Jean when he said that, a little surprised at the suggestion. 

“I - yeah, of course,” he said. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well, the essentials,” Jean said. “And not only those, but some of your grandfather’s favourites, too. You said you wanted to get to know him, and I couldn’t think of a better way than through music.” 

“Oh,” Armin said, his heart racing. He was so  _ touched _ , not only that Jean had remembered, but also that he seemed to want to help so much. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Jean said. “I’ll make a pile as we’re sorting them out. I’d really like to know what you think.”

* * *

Sorting out the dining room wasn’t as easy. As most of the space was taken up by the piano right at the centre of the room, it was difficult for both Jean and Armin to fit at the same time, and they kept bumping and knocking into each other. They kept the door open so they could put piles of things in the hallway, and listen to the music coming from the living room. 

“How did he even  _ fit _ this in here?” Armin asked, wondering how it was possible to fit a grand piano into such a small room. 

“It’s one of the great mysteries of life, I guess,” Jean said. “Honestly, I have no fucking clue. He just never took no for an answer. I wouldn’t be surprised if he tore down the wall and put it back up again afterwards.”

Armin snorted, but he did check to see if the wallpaper was different on any of the walls. He felt a little silly when he saw they were all the same. 

They worked for a little while longer in relative silence. Armin organising the boxes of records into alphabetical order, and Jean was going through piles of sheet music, throwing out photocopies and preserving the originals. Armin told him the name of each record as he sorted them, and Jean made a separate pile for the ones he wanted Armin to listen to. 

“How’s the job search going?” Jean asked. 

“Um… not great?” Armin offered. “I was hoping to find work at a library, or something like that, maybe a museum… but nowhere is hiring.”

“You’re a nerd, aren’t you? Why not just do something to tide you over, then go back to school next autumn?”

Armin paused. 

“I’ve… thought about it,” he said. “I used to want to be a teacher.”

Jean put down the sheet music he’d gotten distracted reading over and leaned over the piano to poke Armin in the shoulder. 

“You should do it!” He said. “Primary or secondary?”

“Secondary,” Armin said. “I’d want to be a history teacher… but I don’t know.”

“Do it,” Jean said, and he paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. “You ‘re really passionate about history, aren’t you? That’s what makes a good teacher. It’s why we all liked Mr Arlert so much. He was the only teacher I  _ did _ like. I think the world needs more teachers like that.”

Armin was stunned into silence when Jean said that, touched by his words, and he had to turn around so Jean didn’t catch the way his eyes had filled up with tears. 

“Thank you,” he murmured. “That’s really kind of you.”

“Not kind, honest,” Jean corrected. “Let’s get back to work.”

* * *

After an hour, the room looked like even more of a mess, and Armin wondered if he had bitten off more than he could chew. 

“It’s time for a break,” Jean decided, and Armin couldn’t help but agree. 

“Good idea,” Armin said. 

“I’ll go out and grab some lunch for us. What do you want?” Jean asked. 

“You can’t buy me lunch two days in a ro-”

“Yeah I can. What do you want?”

“Anything’s fine,” Armin mumbled. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Jean said, turning to leave. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes tops.”

Armin followed him to the door, about to offer to come with when he remembered that Reiner might be working at the shop, and decided against it. Just as Jean was about to leave, he noticed something.

“Wait a second,” he said. “You’ve got something in your hair.”

“Where?” 

“Uh, above your left eye.”

“Your left or my left?” Jean asked, running his hand through his hair to try and get the rouge bit of dust out of it. “Did I get it?”

“No,” Armin laughed. He reached up on his tiptoes, and brushed his fingers through his fringe, successfully removing the dust, but at the last time also realising just how close he was to Jean’s face. With bright red cheeks, Armin pulled back as if touching Jean had burned him. “There, um, got it.”

“Thanks!” Jean said cheerfully, totally oblivious to anything strange, which Armin took as a blessing. “I’ll see you in a bit then!”

“Yeah,” Armin breathed. “See… see you in a bit.”

He watched Jean head off down the path and rolled his eyes a little to himself when he stepped over the rusty gate with his long legs instead of trying to fight to get it open. Heading inside, Armin went back to the dining room, a little tired, and sat down at the piano. 

For the third time, he lifted its lid and stared at the ivory keys. They looked like an invitation. Armin thought about how much fun he had as a kid, about the escape it gave him on cold winter mornings before school began, and he bit his lip. 

_ It’s never too late to learn,  _ that’s what his grandfather used to say, according to Bertholdt. Maybe, then, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he just… played a little. Just to see what he remembered, and then he’d stop before Jean got back. Armin hesitated, hovering his finger over the middle C, before biting the bullet and pressing down. The note rang out in the quiet, and Armin smiled. He was always so quiet; it almost felt like rebellion to make noise just for himself. Armin worked his way up the scale, then made his way back down chromatically, hitting each of the black notes, too. He let out a nervous laugh, memories of doing just this flooding back to him. 

It was much easier to stretch his fingers out across the keys to form the shape of a C chord now he was fully grown. He was beaming down at the keys when he heard the harmony reverberate in the small room, and he kept going, moving his left hand into position, old tunes coming back to him that he used to play. He was more than a little rusty, but Armin was surprised by how  _ natural _ it felt, and it was as if all his worries about playing had melted away. After all, he thought, it was in his blood. 

Leaning over, Armin looked through the pile of sheet music that Jean had made, looking through something that might be easy enough for him to play. He had never forgotten how to read music, and he still knew the notes of the piano, so when Armin sat down with the simplest piece he could find, he began to trace the melody. It was slow and a little off tempo, but Armin just liked the fact that  _ he _ was the one making this music. 

He was so engrossed, so excited, that he didn’t hear the front door open or Jean come inside. He didn’t hear his footsteps down the hall, or even the door to the dining room itself - all Armin heard was the sound of the piano until Jean spoke from right behind him. 

“Wait,  _ what?!” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://linktr.ee/musicworkersalliance
> 
> https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/#donate
> 
> https://linktr.ee/btfacollective
> 
> https://www.lgbtqfund.org/
> 
> https://dancingastronaut.com/2020/06/how-to-use-your-streams-and-dollars-to-support-black-musicians/


	6. Chapter 6

Jean stood, speechless, in the doorway, watching Armin pull back from the piano like a child that had been caught drawing on the walls. Since when could he play the piano? He was so  _ confused.  _

“Jean!” He exclaimed. “You didn’t knock!”

“Yeah I did,” Jean replied, shaking his head. “Why didn’t you tell me you could play?”

Jean watched as Armin’s face turned bright red and he shook his head. “I can’t!”

“Armin, I  _ just _ saw you. Go on, play something again.”

“No way,” Armin denied. He shut the lid and tried to stand up, but Jean put both his hands on Armin’s shoulders and kept him on the piano stool. 

“Play,” he told him, leaning over his shoulder to lift the lid on the piano. 

“Jean, I really don’t know how to. I was just messing around.”

“No you weren’t. You were making music.”

Jean didn’t understand why his stomach felt so tight, or why he wanted so desperately to hear Armin play again. Something about the melodies he heard walking into the house had him feeling like he’d been turned inside out. He had to hear more. 

Armin’s hands were shaking as he held them over the keys again. Several long moments stretched out where there was nothing but silence, and Jean wondered what Armin was so shy about; sure, he hadn’t been perfect, but there was  _ life _ there. It sounded like he was having fun while he played. 

“I can’t do it,” Armin blurted out, and as he spoke, Jean realised that he was still holding onto Armin’s shoulders. He pulled away quickly and tried to ignore the way his stomach flipped, instead reaching over to pick up the sheet music on the stand that he knew hadn’t been there before. 

“You can,” he told him. “Can you read music?”

Armin nodded like there was something to be ashamed of. “Yeah.”

“Then just play the melody of this,” Jean told him. He set the sheet back down and watched Armin’s hands. For a short guy, he had long, slender fingers, perfect for playing the piano. His skin looked impossibly smooth and his nails were neat and filed. How had he never noticed his hands before? 

“Jean, can we just go back to clearing up this-”

“Armin,” Jean interrupted. “Please?”

Armin looked up at him, then, and their eyes met for a brief second before they both broke and turned away. Jean could hear the blood rushing through his ears. What was going on with him? He had never felt like this before. It was like something was pulling him towards Armin, urging him to get closer. He was about to say something else when the sound of the piano broke the silence. 

Armin was shaky, off-tempo, more than a little awkward, and he was obviously unsure about his own rhythm, but for reasons he couldn’t make sense of, the music invoked in Jean the same reaction he had when listening to his favourite records. It made him emotional, in a way, and it reminded him of when he’d first started learning music, when he’d sat on this same stool and Mr Arlert had guided him through his beginner scales and melodies. It wasn’t quite as powerful as when Armin hadn’t been aware that Jean could hear him, but it was still moving.

When he had made it through the first page, Armin stopped, looking a little ashamed and embarrassed of himself. 

“Don’t laugh,” he muttered. That made Jean frown. 

“Why would I laugh?” He asked. “Armin, why didn’t you  _ tell _ me you had music lessons? I didn’t know you could play the piano.”

“I can’t,” Armin insisted. “I never had lessons. I’m nowhere near your level at music, I just liked to mess around at the piano when I was a kid. There’s nothing to it, Jean.”

“You taught yourself?” Jean asked. “You taught yourself how to read music?”

Armin nodded like that was something to be ashamed of. 

“I would have liked to have learned,” he admitted. “But there was no way my family could have afforded it.”

Jean felt real, raw sadness when Armin said that. Music had done so much for him when he was growing up. He’d only started in his early teens, and it had still shaped in ways he was grateful for, even now. It had rounded him at the edges a little - where he’d been snappy and rude, he’d learned to restrain himself. When he needed it the most, music had been there for him, a way to escape from his home life, a way to make friendships. Knowing what Armin had been through, Jean wished he could have been able to learn music properly, too.

“I... used to sneak into the music room at primary school and teach myself,” Armin admitted. Jean watched him trace his fingers over the keys. He looked a lot less stiff when he didn’t actually have to press them down to make the sound. “I used to make up little songs all the time. It’s silly, but… it was a lot of fun.”

“It’s not silly,” Jean told him. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”

“I was embarrassed,” Armin shrugged. “Finding out my grandfather was this amazing music teacher, and you being one of his pupils… you’re so  _ talented. _ If I told you I even played the piano a little bit, you’d get this idea of me that was way better than what I actually am.”

Even if Armin wasn’t his grandson, Jean was sure that he was the kind of person that Mr Arlert would have immediately taken under his wing. He was sure he would have chosen to mentor him. Mr Arlert never told him why he chose the people he did to invest in musically, but he knew Armin would have been one of them. 

“I’ll teach you,” Jean said before he really even thought about it. 

“No, Jean you don’t have to do -”

“I want to,” Jean said. “You said you wanted to get to know your grandfather better, didn’t you? I think this is the perfect way to do that.”

For a few moments, Armin didn’t say anything, and when his eyes filled up with tears, Jean didn’t know what he’d done wrong. 

“I don’t understand why,” Armin sniffed, wiping his eyes with his sleeves, not even pretending that he wasn’t crying. 

“You don’t have to,” Jean told him. “I want to do it. Is that not enough?”

“You have to have a  _ reason.” _

“Consider it a thank you, then. To your grandfather. Passing down what he taught me is the least I can do.”

That only made Armin cry more, and Jean felt a little awkward. He had never been good at comforting people. Most of the time, he found it hard to relate to them, but for some reason, he could feel his heart hurting when Armin cried. He just stood there, wondering what he could do to make this painful feeling his chest go away, and how he could make Armin feel better.

“Budge over,” he told him quietly, and Armin seemed a little stunned before scooting over on the piano stool so Jean could sit beside him. There wasn’t even nearly enough room. Their thighs were touching, pressed up close to each other. The feeling in Jean’s stomach shifted slightly and he did the best he could to ignore it, actively refusing to think about what might be causing the stirring emotion in his chest.

“Play a C major chord with your left hand,” Jean instructed, watching Armin’s hand as it moved into position. He sniffed a little, obviously still crying. Jean wondered if he should give him a hug. Would that be weird? 

“Now what?” Armin asked, and Jean jumped realising he hadn’t told him what to do after. 

“That’s perfect,” Jean said. “You’re using the right fingers. So… have you tried a C major seventh?”

“No,” Armin said. 

“It’s just a C major, but you’re adding the seventh note of the C scale.”

“So a B.”

“Yeah, exactly. I like major sevenths because they sound really jazzy. You’ll want to move your thumb up to hit the B, like this.”

Jean leaned over Armin and took his hand, moving his fingers into the right places. He didn’t pay any mind to how Armin totally stiffened up, or how his breath hitched, but the thought did cross his mind that his skin was soft and warm to the touch. When he pressed down on the keys, the chord rang out through the room, and Jean couldn’t help but grin. 

“You’re right. That is jazzy,” Armin agreed. 

“Just wait,” Jean grinned. “I’ll teach you all sorts. It’s amazing how complicated these chords can get once you start getting into the harder stuff. Back at my house, I have the old book your grandfather gave me to start learning. I’ll lend it to you if you want. It’s for kids, but… it’s really good at making sure you know the basics.”

“Are you sure?” Armin asked. 

“For the thousandth time, I wouldn’t say so if I didn’t mean it,” Jean teased, bumping into Armin, knocking him with his shoulder. 

“Thank you,” Armin sniffed. “You’re really kind, Jean.”

“It’s nothing,” Jean murmured. “Are you… er… are you okay?”

Armin wiped his eyes again and Jean didn’t know if he was going to calm down a little or just burst into tears. 

“It’s just a lot,” he said, his voice wavering like he didn’t know, either.

“That’s okay,” Jean said. “Is it  _ too _ much?”

Armin shook his head. “No. No, I don’t think so.”

“Do you want to carry on?”

As Armin finally turned to look at him, Jean realised just how close they were; Armin’s face was barely centimetres from his own. He could see the teardrops clinging to his eyelashes, and what looked like a faded, half-moon scar on his forehead. For a moment, neither of them moved back. Jean didn’t know why. Later, he would blame it on the lack of room, but right then Jean had no explanation. Armin nearly fell off the seat when he broke the tension and pulled away, but managed to stabilise himself before he fell to the floor. 

“Okay,” he said. They both stared at the piano, not daring to look anywhere but at the familiar order of black and white keys. 

Jean didn’t dare touch Armin’s hands again, because his own were too sweaty - despite the cold, his palms were clammy, and he didn’t want to gross Armin out at all. That, and because the idea of touching Armin’s hands seemed incredibly daunting for some reason, even though he didn’t think twice the first time. 

They worked through all the scales that Armin could remember. Jean was astounded that Armin’s memory had survived for so long and that he had even been able to teach himself so much in the first place. Jean saw more and more of Mr Arlert in him every time Armin spoke. It was fascinating. The two men had never met, but they still shared mannerisms. His ring finger bent in the exact same way when it reached to find a key. He had the same concentrated expression on his face when he played, biting his lip just a little as if deep in thought, which, Jean presumed, he was. Armin always seemed to be deep in thought. That was one of the reasons he was so fascinating.

The food Jean had picked up for lunch sat forgotten in the doorway until Jean’s stomach announced itself by rumbling loudly, startling them both. 

“We forgot to eat!” Armin exclaimed. “I’m so sorry, Jean, I-”

“We just got a bit distracted,” Jean said with a wave of his hand. “Don’t worry so much, we can go and eat now.”

There was an awkward shuffle as they tried to make it out of the room without accidentally touching each other, despite the fact that they’d been sitting with their thighs and hips pressed together for at least an hour. 

Armin put the kettle on, and Jean sat down at the counter. His feet easily reached the floor from the stool, and he tapped his foot to the tune he was absent-mindedly humming, watching as Armin busied himself with making tea. He really did have nice hands, Jean thought. Armin seemed to move with purpose, like he was thinking about every individual movement as he made it, unlike Jean who was much more messy and careless, in everything but music. 

He had nice lips, too. His bottom lip stuck out a little more than the top one, so it looked a bit like he was pouting, even though Jean knew Armin was probably just concentrating. Did he use lip balm? Or did his lips naturally look that soft?

“Jean?” Armin asked, breaking Jean out of his trance and back to a very embarrassing reality. “You okay?”

_ You creep, _ Jean thought to himself.  _ What the hell are you staring at his lips for? _

“Fine,” he said offhandedly, trying to come off as smooth, though that was the furthest thing from how he really felt. He knew there was something weird going on with him, but he didn’t want to think about it. 

“Your tea,” Armin said, handing Jean his mug before hopping up onto the stool next to him. “You didn’t have to wait for me.”

“Huh?” Jean said, before immediately realising he had forgotten about his lunch for the second time. “Oh, it’s fine.”

“Eat,” Armin said. “You need it after cycling all that way.”

Jean smiled and dug in, eating quicker once he tasted the first bite and realised just how hungry he really had been. Armin was, too, he noticed, and they ate in silence quickly, too busy chewing to make conversation. Jean wanted to try cooking for Armin sometime. He wondered if Armin would ever let him cook for him. If he was persistent, maybe… maybe Armin would give in. For some reason, he always seemed a little resistant to Jean’s kindness, like he expected there to be some kind of catch, and Jean thought he’d never met someone so jittery and nervous, which was saying something after knowing Bertholdt for so many years. 

Jean had been about to say something about it when he saw a familiar black and white cat leap up onto the back wall from the window. 

“Stevie!” Jean exclaimed with his mouth full, standing up and taking the ham from his sandwich with him. 

“Stevie?” Armin asked as he followed behind him curiously. 

“I haven’t seen him in forever,” Jean explained. “He’s an old stray that hangs around the area. He’s blind. Or at least, he can’t see very well.”

“Oh,” Armin said. He hung back a little as Jean strode down the garden and held out the ham as an offering. Jean smiled as he approached the old cat. He had no idea if he even recognised him, but Jean liked to think he did, because Stevie took the ham with a meow, and rubbed his head against the back of Jean’s hand.

“He gets around a lot for being so old and so blind,” Jean said, humming a little as he looked at the cat’s milky eyes and at his greying fur. “He’s not been around here much since Mr Arlert died.”

Jean watched as Armin approached with a little bit of his sandwich filling and tried to hand it to him.

“I don’t want him to bite me,” he said nervously. 

“He’s not going to bite you,” Jean assured him. “He’s really friendly.”

“What if he doesn’t like me?”

“He’s a  _ cat,  _ Armin. Put it down in front of him.”

“What if…”

“Just do it,” Jean laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Armin’s hand was shaking as he reached out to feed the cat. Stevie looked a little taken aback at first, almost personally affronted by the stranger that had shoved a hand in his face, but as soon as he smelled the food, he quickly took it. Armin yanked his hand back like he was scared of being bitten, and Jean laughed. 

“See, he’s eating it,” he told Armin. 

“No, I think he hates me,” Armin shook his head, but Jean caught the way he curiously turned his head to observe the cat up close. 

“He’s a cat, and you gave him food,” Jean said. “Do it a couple more times and he’ll love you.”

“I don’t know about that,” Armin hummed. He was shivering, but he didn’t say anything about it. “Did you name him?”

“Yeah,” Jean grinned. “Do you get it?”

“Get what?” 

“The name.”

“No…? Is it a joke?”

Armin looked genuinely bewildered, and it only made Jean laugh more. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he chuckled. Jean had no idea why he found Armin’s bewilderment almost  _ cute _ . “Let’s get back inside, you’re cold.”

“What about Stevie?” 

“He never comes in,” Jean said. “It’s rare that he even comes onto the wall anymore. He’ll scratch you if you try to pick him up.”

Almost on cue, Stevie jumped down from the wall and out of sight, probably going to beg for food from the other neighbours. He remembered how some of the kids on the street fed him sometimes, and how Mr Arlert would leave a bowl out in the winter-time. He felt a pang of sadness knowing he wouldn’t get to do that this year.

They headed back inside where it was only a little warmer. Armin put his coat on because he was cold, and Jean couldn’t resist teasing.

“You’re always cold because you’ve got no meat on your bones,” he said, leaning against the doorframe as Armin got to work organising in the dining-room again. 

“I’m cold because it’s winter!” Armin insisted. His coat was so big on him that it practically swallowed him whole. “You’re only warm because you’re weird.”

“Because I’m weird,” Jean echoed, walking in to help him, a lopsided grin on his face. “How am I weird?”

Armin looked up at him and looked a little embarrassed, his cheeks tinted pink. Jean couldn’t tell if he was blushing or it was because of the cold. 

“Well, you’re… you broke into the house!”

“Not this again,” Jean laughed and leaned over to poke Armin’s shoulder. “I told you, I had a key!”

Armin laughed too, and as he looked up at Jean his cheeks darkened from pink to red. Jean felt his stomach tightening up when he realised that he was definitely blushing. He… liked the way it felt, even if he didn’t understand it. 

“Anyway,” Armin said. 

“Anyway,” Jean echoed quietly.

They made a big deal of not looking at each other.

“We… should probably try and finish in here today.”

Jean nodded. “Okay.”

* * *

Jean’s pile of records for Armin to listen to got taller and taller as the afternoon stretched on. He tried to make a varied selection, but he kept throwing in albums that featured the piano more than anything else. He was just excited that Armin could actually play, as out of practise as he was, and that he was interested in learning more. It gave him the same thrill that he had when he was first starting to learn music, the excitement of setting off on a journey and having no idea where the destination was.

Eventually, the room was in a state of somewhat organised chaos. Although it was still a mess, everything had a place, and all they had to do was arrange everything neatly into other rooms or back onto the shelves. As Jean was stacking records back onto the top shelf, he noticed that on top of a forgotten pile of books was a small, wooden box he didn’t recognise. 

“Huh,” he murmured, picking it up and turning it over in his hands. 

“What’s that?” Armin asked, putting down what he’d been holding and walking over. 

“It’s a box,” Jean said. 

“I meant what’s inside,” Armin said, and Jean laughed. 

He opened the box and saw a thick metal key inside. It looked to be in fine condition, well used, but not rusted or broken. “A key? What does this open?”

Jean had never seen a locked box or a chest around anywhere. The key was far too large to be from a music box, so he assumed it must be to a door. 

“I think I know,” Armin said, and took the key from him before heading quickly out of the room. 

“Where are you going?” Jean called, but Armin didn’t stop, and he scurried up the stairs faster than Jean had ever seen him move. He ran up after, taking two steps at a time, and stopped when he saw Armin standing in the hallway.

“It should open this door, right?” He murmured. “It’s been locked since I got here…”

“I don’t know what’s in there,” Jean told him honestly. “It’s not his bedroom?”

“No, his bedroom is that one,” Armin said, pointing. “I… don’t sleep in there, I sleep in the loft. It feels too weird.”

“So this is a mystery, then.”

Jean was more than a little intrigued. He had never been into these rooms, and he couldn’t help but wonder what was inside. More instruments? Rare records? He was itching to go in and see. 

“I’m going to try it,” Armin announced quietly. He seemed nervous.

Jean was holding his breath as Armin slid the key into the lock, and his heart was racing as he heard the  _ click _ of it opening. They looked at each other, both surprised that it actually worked, and slowly, with a very loud creak, the door swung open. 

In comparison to the other rooms in the house, the space looked almost empty. The window had no curtains on it, and all that stood in the room was a single, neatly organised bookshelf and a desk that had nothing on it but a single book, a pot of pencils, and a rubber, the shavings from it still scattered across the wood. A patch of wallpaper and the carpet had changed colour on one side of the room where the sun shone in during the day. It felt… strange, almost colder in there. 

Armin looked over at Jean and the confusion on his face mirrored Jean’s expression. He watched as he walked over to the desk and picked up the large book, ring-bound on one side and wider than it was tall. 

“What is it?” Jean asked. 

“It’s… I think he was composing,” Armin murmured, and as he turned another page, he gasped. 

“What is it?” 

“Oh my god.”

Armin put the book down and Jean rushed over, leaning over his shoulder to see what had made Armin gasped, and realised instantly. 

Written at the top of the page in pencil were the words  _ For Armin,  _ and the date.

It was a composition, what looked like a jazz piece, and Jean’s heart was in his throat as he scanned over the page. It was written for a standard jazz quartet of piano, drums, double bass and sax, and as Jean flicked through the pages, humming the melody to himself, he realised it stopped abruptly not even halfway through. 

“He… he never got to finish it,” Armin breathed. 

“I don’t get it,” Jean said, going back and looking through the pages, trying to make sense of it. “He didn’t write music, he - he never wrote music! I asked him about it all the time!”

“Was this for me?” Armin whispered. His hands were shaking; Jean saw it in the way the book he was holding trembled. 

“It has your name on it,” Jean said. “It was definitely for you.”

“The date…” Armin said quickly. “That was… it was only a few months before he passed. He must have - oh, god, he must have… started this when he realised he was sick.”

“He wanted to reach out to you,” Jean told him. Seeing the look on Armin’s face made sadness wedge itself in Jean’s chest. “I think he was going to send this to you.”

Armin set the book down and Jean saw the tears start to fall. 

“It’s not fair,” he sniffed. Jean could tell he was holding back how much he was really feeling, and if he was honest, he knew he was doing the same. It  _ hurt _ , knowing that the man he looked up to, the man who, at times, had acted like a father to him, never got to finish writing the piece that was supposed to reconnect him with the family he lost. And it hurt that Armin never got to hear it. That he never  _ would _ get to hear it. 

“Hey,” he murmured, putting his hand on Armin’s shoulder as he leaned on the desk and cried. 

“It’s not fair,” he repeated.

“I know,” Jean told him, his voice cracking.

“I wanted to hear it.”

“I know.” Jean paused and an idea formed in his head. “But… what if you could?”

“How could I? He’s gone, Jean. He was gone before I knew any of this even existed.”

“We could finish it, and play it for you. Look, we can get Reiner to play drums and Bert to play double bass. I’ll go on sax. And you - you can play piano.”

Armin looked up at him and they stared at each other for a moment that stretched out for what felt like minutes but was only a few seconds. Jean felt the same unwavering resolve he had the first time he picked up a saxophone - he wanted to do this. For Mr Arlert, and for Armin, now. 

“I couldn’t do that.”

“Not right now, maybe,” Jean told him. “But it’s not impossible. You can learn.”

“Why?” Armin asked, more tears falling down his cheeks. “Why are you doing this for me?” 

“I want to,” Jean told him. “This… means a lot to me too.”

Jean stopped, but it only seemed like Armin was waiting for him to go on. 

“I… was always asking if Mr Arlert composed,” he murmured. “I looked up to him for so long, I wanted to hear what was inside his head. I wanted to know what his music would sound like. It’s probably more selfish of me than anything else to ask you to do this, but… please.”

Armin wiped his eyes, looked up at Jean, and nodded. 

“Okay.” 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean stops by Armin's house soaked through from the rain. Together, they look through some of Armin's grandfather's photo albums and realise the old man's life was even more of a mystery than it first seemed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! i'm sorry it took me so long to update this chapter, i was working hard on jearmin week, but it's over now so i can focus on my fic again :) i hope you all enjoy this chapter, thank you for reading! also, if you would like you can find me on twitter @vidnyia and come yell at me about jearmin ^^

It was raining again. Jean got to Bertholdt’s family shop with wet hair and a scowl on his face, and let himself in. He had to open up for the day, as he had the keys from closing up the night before. More and more, he had been taking on shifts. He didn’t mind too much - he liked working at the shop, and he liked helping Bertholdt out - but he was becoming increasingly exhausted as working his other job and cycling to and from the city every day took up the rest of his time. The only benefit of it all was that he was hardly at home. 

He hadn’t been able to see Armin again, but Jean couldn’t stop thinking about him - about how he’d been sat at the piano, playing for the first time in what had to be over ten years, still with all the knowledge he’d taught  _ himself _ back then. Jean had so much guidance, while Armin had none at all - despite that, he’d still learned so much, and Jean  _ knew _ he had great potential. 

He was sat half-asleep at the counter when Bertholdt came into the shop. They had hardly seen each other too; Bertholdt hadn’t been with him at work at all - he’d been asking Jean to cover his shifts. As he came in, Bertholdt looked just as tired as Jean felt, with dark circles under his eyes and the usual smile missing from his face. 

“Hey,” Jean said, rubbing his eyes. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks, Jean,” Bertholdt said. He looked around and Jean saw his shoulders sag as he came in, like he wanted to be anywhere but there. 

“What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Bertholdt lied, and Jean raised an eyebrow. “I’m just tired.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I am. Have we had any customers?”

“Nope,” Jean said, getting up and stretching in an attempt to wake himself up a little bit. “Not one.”

Bertholdt sighed again, and Jean didn’t know what he could say or do to change the situation. He wanted to make it right, but he wasn’t sure  _ how _ . The shop had been losing business since Mr Arlert died; Jean felt like he’d taken all the music out of the city when he went, and he felt its absence in the same way that silence unnerved him. He didn’t like it. 

“Thanks for coming in early,” Bertholdt said. “I… appreciate it.”

“It’s fine,” Jean said. “I have something I wanted to talk to you about, so I’m glad you’re here.”

“It’s not something bad, is it?” Bertholdt looked like one piece of bad news would break him. 

“No, it’s good,” Jean grinned. “Armin and I were going through some of Mr Arlert’s stuff last week, and we found one of his compositions.”

“I thought he didn’t compose?”

“Neither did I,” said Jean. “But we found this piece half-written. He didn’t get to finish it before he died.” 

Bertholdt seemed to deflate even more when Jean said that, and Jean didn’t know how to get him to open up about what was going on. Was it even his business? They’d been close once, but every day since Mr Arlert died it was like they had been growing more and more apart. Jean had never been good at keeping friends. Before, music was keeping them together, but they didn’t have that any more. Everything felt… off, and Jean hoped this unfinished piece would be what it took to bring them all back together. 

“Why did he never mention it?” Bertholdt asked quietly. “You were always asking.”

“It… was for Armin,” Jean said, biting his lip when he thought about Armin’s reaction to finding the unfinished piece. “I want to try and finish it, with him, so he can hear it.”

“And so you can hear it, too?”

“Yeah,” Jean admitted. “I think it’s going to be a good way to get the band back together. It’s arranged for a quartet, so…”

Bertholdt’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Jean…”

“I know, I know,” Jean said, trying not to let his frustration show too much on his face. “Soon, right?”

“I’m sorry,” Bertholdt sighed. “It’s just… everything is so much right now. The twins are turning four next month, and mum’s too busy with work to come down to the shop, and it… it’s really overwhelming.”

“It must be,” Jean said, feeling guilty for pushing when Bertholdt had so much on his plate. 

“I just keep expecting dad to come back. Even though I know it’s not happening.”

Jean swallowed. He knew that feeling all too well, even if he was only a kid when his dad walked out and never came back. He was only six, so he didn’t remember that well, but Bertholdt had just been starting his adult life when his dad left. His mum had been pregnant with the twins at the time - Jean remembered how Bertholdt had seemed lifeless for weeks before he picked up the slack and stayed home to support his family, putting aside university to take over running the music shop his father had abandoned. 

“It’s been years, Bertholdt,” Jean said. He was trying to be firm but fair, but he didn’t know if he just sounded like an asshole. “I know you want him to. But he won’t come home.”

“I know,” Bertholdt sighed. “It sucks, but you’re right.”

“Nothing new there,” Jean said, smiling a little, trying to lighten the mood. “You worry way too much. It’ll pick up here again soon. Everything’s going to be fine.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

* * *

Armin felt like he was doing something wrong. 

He hadn’t meant to snoop in his grandfather’s room. All he had wanted was to keep organising the house, but without Jean, it was hard to do more work on the downstairs. He liked to hear Jean talking as he worked with him, but Jean hadn’t mentioned that he was going to come over today, and Armin was far too shy to ask him. He had been busier recently, and Armin didn’t want to make him come over to help, even if Jean insisted he enjoyed their organising together. 

Armin had taken a peek into the bedroom, which led to him slipping inside. It was a large room. Just like the office, it was tidy, though a few cardboard boxes peeked out from underneath the bed. Armin couldn’t resist pulling them out to look at their contents, even if he had a nagging feeling that it was wrong. Inside were piles of old documents, letters, and several large photo albums. Armin took the leather-bound albums out of the boxes and carried them downstairs into the living room, unable to stay in his grandfather’s room any longer - he felt like an imposter. Before even thinking about opening them up, Armin put on one of the records Jean compiled for him. 

He’d been listening to them a lot, so much so that he was already halfway through the tall pile. Armin found himself unable to concentrate on much else as he listened - even when reading a book, his mind drifted from the words and latched on to the melodies and the rhythms of the music, thinking about them in a way he had never thought about jazz music before. It was like a peek into Jean’s world - into his grandfather’s world. He didn’t like all of them. Some just sounded like noise, with no tune or beat, the notes played seemingly at random. When they’d spoken on the phone, Jean told him it was supposed to be like that, and the music was meant to be more mathematical than it was melodic. That captured Armin’s attention; he realised how much more he had to learn. 

The piece that was playing in the living room as Armin pulled the first of the photo albums onto his lap was slow and rhythmic. His foot tapped along slowly as he brushed away the dust and traced his fingers over the lettering on the front. Why did opening this feel like it was all of a sudden far too personal, or that he was betraying some secret agreement that he’d never made? Was he scared of feeling a connection between him and his grandfather? Was he scared of seeing the man he could have known for all his life, but never got the chance to?

Armin’s curiosity was battling his fear. He felt the same urge to  _ know,  _ to learn, to see what was behind each page. But was it wrong? Was it wrong to know?

“He wanted to know me,” Armin murmured to himself, thinking of that unfinished composition, the piece that had never been played. The one that was for him. “I want to know him, too…”

Even though his grandfather was gone, even though they would never meet - Armin wanted to know him.

Slowly, he turned over the cover. The photographs were small and grainy, not developed in colour like they were now, but black and white. The first few were of a woman with a small baby in her arms.  _ Baby William,  _ the caption read. Armin swallowed. It was his grandfather - of course he had been a baby once - with his great-grandmother, dressed up. It wasn’t long after the turn of the century. He got older quickly; photos were rarely taken back then. He saw pictures of the city - it looked almost the same, save for many buildings that must have been reduced to rubble in the war. One that caught Armin’s attention was of his younger grandfather standing outside a church Armin didn’t remember seeing but vaguely recognised. 

There were photographs of him going to boarding school, coming home, of summers in the countryside. Armin had tears in his eyes as he watched his grandfather’s life pass by in still images. He didn’t know him. He never had, and he never would. But he wished that he could have, more than anything. There were memories of his parents inside Armin’s mind that would never go away, but… his grandfather was a mystery to him, and the more Armin learned about him, the further from grasp he seemed. 

Tears were rolling down his cheeks as he got to the end of the first photo album, and Armin sniffed, taking a moment to listen to the music and calm down before he picked up the next. It was much smaller, but it was wrapped in tissue paper like it was precious. Armin unwrapped it slowly, careful not to tear the paper, and set it neatly aside as he sat with the book on his knees. 

Just as he was about to open it, a loud knock at the door startled him. 

“Coming!” Armin called. He set the photo album down and wiped the tears from his eyes before rushing to the door. He peeked through the spyhole and saw Jean’s stretched-out form peering back at him, which made Armin feel instantly better. 

“Hey,” Jean said as Armin opened the door to let him in. He was soaking wet from the rain, no saxophone on his back, and his bike was locked up in its usual spot. He didn’t look as cheery as usual. 

“Hey,” Armin replied. “You okay?”

“I’m doing great,” Jean said. Armin didn’t miss the sarcasm, and he stepped aside to let him in, feeling bad for making him stand in the pouring rain longer than he had to. 

“Come in,” he said, more grateful for the company than he could express. He loved the way that Jean came over unannounced. He stepped in like it was his home, as always, and hung up his coat next to Armin’s. 

“It’s nice and warm in here,” Jean said, and it was only then that Armin noticed he was shivering. 

“Tea?”

“Please.”

“Come on through then.”

They walked into the kitchen. As Armin bustled around putting the kettle on, he felt Jean’s eyes on him, and it made his ears feel hot with embarrassment. 

“Have you been crying?” Jean asked. 

“Yeah,” Armin admitted. He kept his back turned to Jean, not wanting to look him in the eye. He had always been a crybaby - it was one of the things he was teased for most growing up. 

“Why?”

“I was… looking through photo albums.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah…”

“Are you alright?”

Armin never got used to the way Jean never seemed to dance around a topic or question. He liked his honesty. It made him feel at ease, like he didn’t  _ have _ to overanalyse everything, though of course, he did anyway. 

“Sort of,” he replied. “It’s a really weird feeling to look at all of this. It’s… kind of lonely.”

Jean paused for a moment, scratching the stubble on his chin, obviously thinking.

“Well, how about you let me use your shower, and then I’ll come and look through them with you?” He asked. 

“O-oh, um, sure!” Armin said quickly, stirring the tea so vigorously that it spilt over the side of the mug. He was both touched and highly flustered - Armin often felt that way around Jean. 

“I’ll be five minutes, alright? I’ll be back before the tea’s good to drink.”

“Your clothes are wet,” Armin pointed out like it wasn’t obvious. 

“Oh, shit. They are. Do you mind sticking them in the dryer?”

“Yeah, um… you can… wear some of mine until they’re done…?”

“They’ll be like kids’ clothes on me,” Jean laughed. “But sure. Thanks.” 

“I’ll leave them outside the bathroom door.”

“Got it,” Jean said, giving him a wave. “I’ll bring mine down when I’m done. Thanks, Ar!”

As Jean left, Armin just stood there staring at the space where he had been, feeling his heart clench. Nobody had ever called him Ar before. 

He liked it.

* * *

Just as Jean said, Armin’s clothes looked comically small on him. He came back downstairs laughing, wearing a pair of trousers that looked like three-quarter lengths and Armin’s biggest shirt that was far too tight around his shoulders. His hair was wet and slicked back. He looked good, but Armin didn’t stare - he wouldn’t let himself, even if he wanted to. 

He really wanted to. 

Instead, Armin took Jean’s wet clothes and put them in the dryer so they would be ready in a little while for him. 

“Do you think I pull this look off?” Jean asked, laughing, as the machine beeped on. “I can’t believe how tiny you are.”

“I’m not  _ that _ short,” Armin huffed. “You’re just way too tall.”

“Sorry, what was that? I couldn’t hear you from down there.”

“Very funny. Your tea’s about to go cold.”

“Shit,” Jean said, rushing to drink the whole cup in one go. “God, I needed that. Thanks. I feel way better already.”

“Did you just come over because you were cold?” Armin asked as he led Jean into the living room where he had been sat before. 

“What? No! I wanted to see you. Did you not want me around or something?”

“Of course I do! I like it when you come over, Jean.”

“Good. Maybe I’ll do it more and more until you get sick of me.”

“Try me,” Armin said quietly, smiling just a little bit. 

“I will!” Jean laughed.

Together, they sat down on the sofa. The house felt so much more comfortable to Armin when Jean was there. When he was alone, it was too big, but when it was the two of them, it was just right. Maybe it was just loneliness, or maybe it was just the way Jean made Armin feel at ease. Most likely, Armin thought, it was both. 

“I… already looked through the first one,” he said. “I don’t know if you knew what he looked like when he was younger, but…”

“No, I didn’t. Can I…?”

“Go ahead.” Armin passed him the album, nervously looking over Jean’s shoulder, watching as he slowly turned through the pages. He was a lot faster than Armin was, but his eyes scanned over the pages quickly. Armin found himself watching Jean’s face instead of looking at the photographs again, searching for any hint of distress, but Jean was just smiling sadly, even chuckling a little bit. 

“This is so weird,” he said. “Is it weird for you?”

“Yeah,” Armin admitted. “Really weird. It’s like… I recognise him, but I don’t.”

“Does he look like your dad?”

“Not at all.”

“Makes sense,” Jean said. “I think you take after him a little bit, though. You’ve got the same eyes.”

Armin felt a lurch in his stomach and focused his attention immediately back onto the album. Jean had been looking at his eyes? Did that mean anything? He couldn’t let himself believe that. He was being illogical again - it was irrational to believe that Jean was interested in men at  _ all _ , let alone in  _ him.  _ He was setting his hopes too high again. He needed to stop making that mistake. 

“Thanks,” he murmured. He didn’t say anything else after that, just watched the pages turn until Jean was done. 

“You know, I don’t think my mum has any baby pictures of me,” Jean mentioned. 

“Really?”

“Maybe when I was really little, but not after my dad left.”

“Oh,” Armin said. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Jean waved the apology away. “He was a scumbag. I’m glad he’s gone.”

Armin swallowed. He missed his parents so much, every single day. They weren’t perfect. Things had always been a little strange, a little off, a little bit removed - but they were still his mum and dad, and nobody had a family that got it right all the time. Armin wished he could have had more chances for good times with them. But they were gone, and they weren’t coming back. He faced that with realism, but it didn’t mean it hurt any less. 

“You still have your mum,” Armin said, easing a smile out of himself, wanting to reassure Jean, and himself, a little bit. 

“Yeah,” Jean sighed. “It’s… complicated, but I still have her.”

“Do you… want to talk about it?”

“Not really, to be truthful with you,” Jean said. “Let’s just look through this, shall we?”

“Okay.” Armin picked up the second photo album, and set it down in his lap, a little nervous to look inside. He snuck one look at Jean and swallowed.

“I’m curious,” Jean said. “Mr Arlert never mentioned having a wife. Do you think there are pictures of your grandmother in here?”

“Maybe,” Armin said, running his fingers down the album’s spine. “It would be at that point in his life, and this one… looked special to him.”

Inside, there was one white page, blank except for one word, ‘ _ David’,  _ written neatly at the centre. Jean and Armin shared a look of confusion, and Armin wasted no time in turning to the next page. Instantly, both of them recognised Armin’s grandfather, but not the man stood next to him with his arm around his shoulders. He was taller and had dark hair styled into a short afro, grinning at the camera widely. Armin instantly felt drawn to him, and he leaned in closer, looking at the next pages. Every single photograph was of the two of them, and they were always smiling. Some of the time they were playing instruments - Armin heard Jean let out a soft gasp when he saw a photo of the man that was presumably David playing an alto saxophone next to Armin’s grandfather on the piano. 

Was it wrong to be looking at this? It felt even more like an invasion of privacy than before. Armin was spying in on a life he was never invited to be a part of, but at the same time, these photographs did belong to him. His grandfather had  _ left  _ them to him.

“Were they…” Jean murmured, trailing off.

“I don’t know,” Armin replied quickly. He didn’t want Jean to say it. He didn’t want to hear his opinion on what it meant to be gay. He didn’t want to know, so that part of his mind could keep pretending that he would find it okay, that he wouldn’t find him disgusting.

“Looks like it to me.”

“This feels wrong,” Armin said, closing the photo album only halfway through. He had seen a picture of them holding hands and he couldn’t keep going, worried about what his grandfather would think if he saw him spying like this. “I can’t… I can’t keep going. I feel guilty.”

“Yeah,” Jean breathed. Armin was surprised to hear him sound a little bit off, too. “Honestly? I do as well.”

It was awkward as they both sat there with the photo album between them. Armin didn’t know what to say or how to approach starting another conversation when he felt so strange and regretful.

“Um…” he started, just to say  _ something. _

“How about a piano lesson?” Jean asked quickly, and inside, Armin rejoiced because that was the perfect way to get  _ both _ of their minds off what just happened. 

“Sure.”

* * *

In the tiny dining room, Armin played the things he had been practising over the past few days while Jean sat back and watched. He always felt nervous at this piano stool, and though he’d tried, Armin hadn’t been able to replicate the feeling of that first time, when the music had come to him so joyfully for a few minutes before being interrupted by Jean. Having someone far more talented and knowledgeable stood over his shoulder made Armin nervous. He was constantly worrying about playing a wrong note or not having the right rhythm, and despite his hopes, he couldn’t shift the uncomfortable, guilty feeling out of his chest. It was lodged in there, the feeling that he saw something he wasn’t supposed to see, like he had done something wrong.

And still, the mystery of it was taunting him. 

As Jean guided him to the correct chords and played the melodies so he could hear them, Armin was thinking about David. If he was the man in the picture, who was he to his grandfather? Armin was almost sure he knew the answer, he just… didn’t know how to believe it. The age he looked in those photographs should have been the age he was getting married, and if his maths were correct, it was around the time that Armin’s father would have been born. He knew from his father that his grandmother died when Armin was barely one year old - they had been to visit her grave in their town many times before, but no mention of his grandfather was ever made. Not a single word was ever muttered about him in their house. Armin wished he could just  _ ask.  _ But he didn’t have anyone. He had no family left, and that feeling gave him a crushing loneliness he didn’t know how to fix. 

“You’re distracted,” Jean stated, leaning forward to close the piano lid. 

Armin didn’t deny it.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I just… I hate feeling so confused. I wish I could just talk to him.”

“Well, you could. Though you wouldn’t get an answer.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you want to go and visit his grave?”

Armin paused. He’d thought about it. He knew where it was, but he hadn’t been to visit. It was something to do  _ later, _ but really, Armin was just scared. 

“Okay,” he said. “I’d like that.”

They got up and out of that cramped room. Armin felt like he could breathe a little bit better once he was further away from Jean. He busied himself getting his clothes out the dryer and waited by the door as Jean changed, grateful that the rain had stopped and the sky was clearing up. His too-big coat would come in handy to protect him from the cold, so Armin wore it even though it swallowed him up. 

The winter air hit him in the face as they stepped outside. Jean was wearing his dry clothes again, and he looked a lot more comfortable. 

“I’ll leave my bike here if that’s alright with you,” Jean said. 

“Okay. Do you want a lift home afterwards?”

“You sure?”

Armin nodded. “Of course.”

“Thanks. Riding so much has been exhausting recently.”

They walked quietly for a little while. Jean led the way, and Armin followed, trusting him to know the fastest routes around the city far better than him. It was grey outside, the roads still damp from the rain, and the streets were bare. People were avoiding the cold, tucked into shops or hurrying by all wrapped up in gloves and scarves. 

“Does it snow here?” Armin asked, looking up at the small patches of blue peeking out from behind the clouds. 

“Sometimes,” Jean said. “Not very much. Not like you get up north.”

“It’s not so bad where I’m from. I don’t like the cold much.”

“I can tell.” Jean poked him in the side. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“That’s not how it seemed earlier.”

“Well, it was an excuse to home over, wasn’t it?”

Armin felt his cold cheeks warm up considerably when Jean said that, and he quickly pulled his hood up so he wouldn’t see him blush. 

“You don’t need an excuse,” he mumbled. 

“What was that?”

“I said you can come over anytime. We’re… we’re friends, right?”

“Yeah,” Jean smiled. “Yeah, we’re friends.”

After they stopped at a florist to buy some flowers, it took just fifteen minutes to get to the graveyard. The last of the fallen leaves crunched under their feet as Jean and Armin walked the twisting paths towards where his grandfather lay at rest. Armin held his bouquet tightly, nervous as he followed behind Jean. He was anticipating the emotions he would feel before he got there. Would he cry? It was likely. Would he feel any kind of acceptance? That, he didn’t know. When he saw the gravestone, Armin walked quickly past Jean and headed straight for it. Jean hung back; Armin was grateful that he was giving him some space. 

The grass hadn’t yet started to grow over the mound of earth that buried his grandfather. Armin set the flowers next to a slightly-wilting bouquet that looked similar to the one Jean bought from the florist. He sat down where the grass grew - the cold spread up from the earth through Armin’s body, but he did his best to ignore it.

_ William Arlert,  _ the gravestone read.  _ Loving teacher, musician and friend. Rest in Peace. 1902 - 1975. _

Speaking out loud felt a little silly, but he forced himself to, even if he knew his grandfather couldn’t hear him. He took one deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling it in his chest before letting himself just  _ talk. _

“I’m sorry,” he said, surprising himself with the words he hadn’t even meant to say. “I’m sorry I didn’t visit any sooner. I’m sorry for playing your piano and looking through your things. I don’t mean anything bad, I… I feel guilty for it all. I’m just  _ confused,  _ and I’m lonely. I wish I could have known you. I wish I could know why you left me your home. I wish I could have spoken to you, just once. I’m doing it now, but you can’t hear me or say anything at all.”

Armin looked back as Jean, who gave him an encouraging nod as if telling him to go on. 

“Why did you never reach out to me? You knew I existed. You must have known when mum and dad… you must have known you were the only family I had. So why didn’t you... ”

Armin’s eyes filled with tears, and he bit his lip, unable to go on. He shook his head and stood up brushing the dirt from his jeans. 

“I’m done.” 

“Already?”

Armin just nodded and walked back so Jean could have some privacy as he spoke. Really, he thought to himself, it would have made much more sense if his grandfather left the house to Jean. They were close, and Jean was a talented musician, one he’d taught himself, one he had chosen. Jean deserved it more than he did. It didn’t make sense, and it didn’t feel fair, either. 

Tears rolled down Armin’s cheeks and he brushed them away with frustration, not wanting to cry even though he couldn’t help it. He didn’t let himself look at Jean kneeling on the grass, instead trying to distract himself by focusing on anything else. His eyes landed on the grave next to his grandfather’s, and he felt his heart sink as he read the words engraved into the stone.

_ In loving memory of David Jones. 1901 - 1946.  _

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time, Jean invites Armin to watch him play live.

For the next few days, all Armin could think about was the mystery that had been placed right into his lap. Was the David from the photographs the same David buried next to his grandfather? It would make sense considering that the age the man seemed to be in the photographs lined up with the date engraved into his headstone. If it was true, then - if his grandfather had asked to be buried next to this man who had died almost thirty years before him - then the question of their relationship to each other was undeniable. From the pictures alone, Armin was almost sure that there was some kind of romantic connection, and it was clear that Jean had thought so too. The question of what that meant to Jean sat heavy in Armin’s mind, too. He didn’t seem to have an adverse reaction, but then again, there was only the implication of romance and no real evidence. Armin hadn’t told Jean about what he’d noticed at the cemetery, either. 

There were ways of finding out. Armin could go to the library and look up David Jones, see what he could learn about his life, how he died, what his obituary said. He could find out if he knew his grandfather and if he was the same David. He could look through more of the boxes and the photo albums. Maybe he would find letters or diaries, something that would tell him more about who his grandfather _was,_ because right now Armin felt more confused and disconnected than ever. 

But at the same time, there was guilt. The kind of guilt that twisted Armin up inside, that physically hurt his stomach when he thought about prying into a dead man’s life to unpick all of his secrets. Those secrets weren’t Armin’s to know, and he felt awful for how badly he wanted the answers. Even though he knew it made him selfish, he was desperate to have a connection to a man that seemingly didn’t want him to be a part of his life until it was over. The notes he’d left in his will didn’t even invite Armin to the funeral. It was a small affair, apparently - just a handful of people whose names Armin didn’t even know. 

Armin had no idea what to do. He knew what he _wanted_ , but it would eat him up inside. Would the satisfaction of knowledge be worth the guilt? In his heart, Armin knew he had to wait. He couldn’t dive in now - he had to push it from his mind and focus on the things his grandfather had left out in the open. The music he had begun to compose for him was what he would hold onto - it was the proof that he at least was thinking about him, that this house wasn’t just left to him because he was next of kin. With Jean’s help, they could finish writing the piece together. 

All of the boxes Armin didn’t yet feel like he should touch went back into his grandfather’s bedroom. He locked the door with the old key he found in there and threw it up on top of one of the kitchen cabinets where he wouldn’t be able to reach it. That made him feel well enough to be able to breathe a little better, Armin was able to focus on something else for an afternoon, even the mental conflict lingered in the back of his mind. He had finally gotten around to finishing some job applications, and got them sent off. There was a job at a bookshop he was trying to get, and one at the museum he was hoping for, too. With no experience, it was unlikely, but he wanted to try. 

That night, Armin lay up in his room in the loft, staring at the wooden beams that made up the roof, thinking. Maybe he could call Jean the next morning, and ask if he was free. Did he work on Saturdays? His schedule changed so often. Maybe if he was free, Jean would give him another piano lesson, or they could go out for a walk… really, Armin just wanted to spend time with him. He liked Jean’s company, even if he made him so nervous.

* * *

Armin didn’t have to wait long. The next morning, as he was listening to a record and eating his breakfast, the phone rang loudly down the hall. Armin picked it up, hoping that it would be Jean, and he smiled when he heard the voice on the other line. 

“Hey,” Jean said. He sounded excited.

“Hi,” Armin replied. He was fiddling with the phone cord, twirling it around his finger, a little nervous. Jean didn’t normally call before coming over, so this was a bit out of the blue. “How are you?”

“I’m great. Are you busy tonight?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. Who else would I be talking to?”

“Ah, sorry,” Armin cringed. “No, I’m not busy tonight. Did you… want to come over?”

“I have a gig,” Jean said. “Down at the pub in my village. I’ll be doing a set for half an hour or so… I don’t know. You want to come?”

Armin blinked and nodded before realising that Jean couldn’t see him. 

“Y-yeah!” He exclaimed. “I… I’d like that! What time?”

“I start at nine,” Jean said. “But there are a bunch of people playing tonight. You should come a little earlier and watch them with me before I go on.”

“I’d like that. When should I come then?”

“Get there around half seven. I’ll meet you at the car park and show you the way. We’ll find a good table.”

“Sure!”

“Alright. If you’re planning to drink, you can stay over at my house, if you like.”

“Oh - that - that’s fine,” Armin said quickly, his face turning red. “I don’t drink. But thank you.”

“Alright,” Jean replied. “But the offer’s there, alright? I’ll see you later.”

“See you, Jean.”

Armin heard him hang up and he slid down the wall, blushing deeply as he tried not to get too nervous. He brought his knees up to his chest and hid his face, the phone hanging off the wall next to him. He heard Jean play all the time - whenever he came to practice in the cellar, which was often, the music came up through the floor. But he’d never _seen_ him. He’d never seen him stand up and play for an audience. He’d never been played _to._

It made Armin’s heart race. 

Everyone else would be there. It wasn’t just for him - but Armin couldn’t help but take a small piece of happiness from the fact Jean had invited him along. He hadn’t been invited to something in a long, long time.

* * *

It was dark that evening when Armin slipped out of his house and locked the door behind him. In his chest stirred an emotion that blurred the line between fear and excitement, causing his hands to shake. Armin was jittery as he got into his car, so he sat for a few minutes just running the engine and blasting the heater, trying to squash down the nervous thoughts that told him to run back inside. It took all of his willpower to pull out of his parking spot and start the journey to Jean’s village. 

He wasn’t surprised when it started to rain. He took the roads a little slower, listening to the water falling on the windows and the classical music coming through the radio to calm himself down. If it wasn’t so cold, he would have opened the window and listened to the ocean crashing against the cliffs below, too, but Armin just tapped his fingers in a slow rhythm on the steering wheel and kept his eyes on the winding roads.

As he pulled up into the car park, Armin saw Jean leaning against a streetlamp, shielded from the weather by a large umbrella that seemed unfazed by the wind. The nerves in his stomach lurched when he saw him, and the feeling of anxiety got worse when Jean grinned and started walking over to his car. Armin killed the engine quickly and pulled his hood up before getting out, worried about getting rained on, but Jean held out his umbrella as soon as he shut the door. 

“You’re getting wet!” Armin exclaimed, having to talk loudly over the pouring rain, trying to push the umbrella back. 

“You’re welcome,” Jean retorted. 

“Get under the umbrella. It’s yours.”

“If you’re going to be stubborn we can share it.” 

“...Fine.”

“And hello to you too, by the way,” Jean said, walking side-by-side with Armin out of the car park. They barely both fit underneath the umbrella, and Armin could feel his shoulder brushing against Jean’s arm with each step. 

“Hi,” Armin smiled shyly up at him. Jean blinked and looked away. 

“It’s busier than I thought tonight. Good thing you got here while there are still some free tables. Have you eaten?”

“I ate before I left,” Armin nodded. 

“Good.”

Armin held his coat tightly around himself as they walked down the narrow road. At the bottom of the hill, there was a small roundabout where the pub and a small corner shop sat. It was lively with noise even over the rain, and Armin thought that if it wasn’t so cold, he would have liked to wander down the small path that seemed to lead down to the beach not far away. The idea of such a rowdy, crowded space made him nervous, but he was determined to see his fears through and watch Jean perform. 

“Did you invite anyone else?” He asked curiously as they reached the pub, standing under cover before going in. Jean shook off his umbrella and folded it up. 

“Bertholdt and Reiner, yeah,” he said. “But neither of them could make it.”

Jean looked disappointed, and Armin felt for him. Sadness didn’t suit Jean’s features like a smirk did. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“No, don’t be. Reiner has his little sister to look after and Bert… seems to be going through a lot at the moment.”

“I hope he’s okay.”

“He’ll be fine. He worries too much. I’m sure whatever it is isn’t that bad, he just refuses to open up about it. But, whatever. If he starts playing music again it’ll take his mind off it.”

“Is that your solution to everything?”

“Music? Yeah. There’s not much music can’t fix.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“You’d better,” Jean grinned and opened the door for him before they both stepped inside.

* * *

The atmosphere of the small bar hit Jean square in the face. He loved nights like this, where the village came together to share their music. He’d played here before many times, sometimes with Bertholdt and Reiner back when they were a band. He knew the regular faces of the other musicians, those who he liked and those he wasn’t fond of, the folk singers and the piano players. They all crowded under the low ceilings, drinking and laughing and listening, rowdy as ever but all united by a common feeling that music gave to them. 

Jean grabbed Armin by the wrist so he didn’t get lost in the crowd, holding on a little tighter than he needed to. Nobody was playing yet, but Sasha, a girl he’d known since he was a kid, was tuning up her guitar. She wasn’t into jazz, but she could sing, and Jean liked her voice a lot. The small area they’d rigged up to perform by had a couple of amps, a microphone on a stand and an old, slightly battered upright piano. Its wood was worn by age and wear, but Jean loved its charm. It suited the place - everything showed its history here. He wondered if he did too. 

The table Jean had saved for Armin was a little out of the way, but it had a clear view of the makeshift stage. Jean wanted Armin to see him when he performed - maybe it was a little arrogant of him, made him too much of a show-off - but he missed the feeling of being seen and being heard. 

“Sit down, I’ll get you a drink,” he said. “What d’you want?”

“I - um - a glass of water is fine. Thank you.”

“Water?” Jean asked, raising an eyebrow. “Suit yourself.”

He left Armin to get settled down and made his way to the bar, waiting for a little while to get served. 

“Hey, Jean,” the bartender said cheerfully. “How’s it going? You playing tonight?”

“Connie!” Jean grinned. “I’m good, and yeah, I am. I didn’t realise you were working.”

“I switched shifts to be here,” Connie said, looking over at Sasha. Jean leaned over the bar and grinned. 

“Ahh, I see,” he teased. “Something tells me you didn’t do that so you could hear my set.”

“Shut up, man,” Connie blushed. “It’s that obvious, huh?”

“Clear as day. Can I have a pint and a glass of water?”

“Sure. You with a girl?” Connie asked. Jean’s stomach twisted and he shook his head. 

“No, I’m with a friend. He’s sat over there.”

“Never seen him around before.”

“He’s from the city.”

“He looks terrified.”

“He probably is,” Jean laughed. “He’s the type that doesn’t get out much.”

Connie chuckled as he handed Jean his drinks. Jean thanked him, handed over the money, and gave him a nod before heading back to Armin. 

“You alright?” He asked. 

“Mm,” Armin hummed. “I’m not used to being around this many people.”

“You’ll be fine once the music starts,” Jean told him. “Don’t worry.”

Jean leaned back in his seat and looked around. He loved it here. Like the rest of his village, this place was bright with life and colour, different in every way from the city where he worked. Art hung on the walls, alongside pictures of the ocean and the beaches surrounding them. The lights were dim but just enough to make out everything that made this place beautiful. He wondered why he hadn’t taken Armin before. 

“Good evening,” Sasha's voice came through the mic. Around them, the conversations quietened but didn’t fully stop. Jean watched Armin as he perked up and watched her intently, and tried to gauge his interest. Did he find her pretty? He’d never much thought about Sasha’s looks before, but she had a nice voice. 

“Do you know her?” Armin whispered.

“Yeah,” Jean replied. “Her name’s Sasha. I’ve known her since I was a kid.”

“I’ll just be singing a few songs,” Sasha continued, smiling, fiddling with her guitar. “I haven’t had dinner yet. I’m starving.”

There were a few laughs as Sasha finished adjusting her guitar strap and held onto the mic, and then she began to sing. She had a folky, nice voice, and Jean enjoyed the way her fingers moved effortlessly between the chords like it was no effort to her at all. He remembered thinking it was a shame she had no interest in the music he liked, or he would have introduced her to Mr Arlert a long time ago. 

Though Jean usually gave his full attention to the music, he found his eyes resting on Armin, watching his reactions. Live music always felt different to records, at least for Jean - no matter the genre, Jean felt a tingling under his skin, a warm excitement that bubbled up from his chest and made him itch to get up there himself. Armin seemed affected in the same way as he leaned forwards in his seat, eyes locked on Sasha with his blue eyes shining and a wide smile on his face. Something about him made the atmosphere feel different; Jean’s heart was beating a little faster, and he didn’t want to admit that he had a suspicion as to why. 

“She’s amazing,” Armin beamed after Sasha finished her first song. Jean wanted to be better - he wanted to make Armin even more awestruck than he was now, and he hummed as he looked over at the old piano behind Sasha. He would have to try something different, he thought. Something Armin wouldn’t be expecting, because he wanted to surprise him. 

“She’s got a great voice,” Jean agreed. At the bar, Connie was ignoring the queue of people in favour of watching Sasha too. She spoke at the mic for a little while, joking around, and making everyone laugh. Her cheerful nature was infectious and Jean only got more excited to get up there himself. 

“Do you play with her?” Armin asked. 

“No,” Jean said. “We don’t have any genres in common. But I would have liked to.”

He leaned back and sipped his drink as Sasha started her next song. Her long skirt swayed as she moved, and she sang like it was her favourite thing in the world to do. True to her word, she sang just a few songs before packing her guitar back up to rambunctious applause and a lot of cheering. The next person to take the mic was an older guy, and Jean took the opportunity to lean back and think about his own set as the minutes passed. His eyes stayed focused on Armin as he wondered what his expression might be when Jean took to the piano. He hadn’t been practising the piano like he did his sax, but with what he was planning to do, there would be nothing too technical that he couldn’t pull off. 

The stage changed hands a few more times before Jean decided to go and set up.

“I’m up next,” he murmured, putting his hand on Armin’s back as he leaned in, wanting to make sure he heard him over the duo of rock singers that were riling up the entire village. “I’m going to get ready.”

“Good luck,” Armin grinned at him, and Jean was struck by nerves for the first time in years. Just seeing Armin smile like that seemed to unearth him entirely; he felt like he had worms in his stomach, and his hands were clamming up. 

“Thanks,” he muttered, his cheeks bright red, sweat on his brow as he took off for the small back room, grabbing his sax and taking it outside to set up so he could calm down for five minutes. 

The cold air instantly made Jean feel a little better, waking him up and snapping him out of his flushed state. The rain was coming down a little slower now, so Jean stayed under the cover of a picnic umbrella, kneeling on the cold patio. The muffled hum of music, laughter and conversations all blurred together as one when the doors closed behind him, and Jean smiled with satisfaction at the sharp _click_ of his sax case opening. He lifted it open and took a moment to admire the way the outside lighting reflected off the polished, well-maintained brass. 

Jean always took his time setting up. He was delicate and careful with his saxophone, in contrast to everything else he never paid much mind to. Wetting the reed in his mouth, Jean put the pieces of his instrument together, slotting them all into place before lining up the mouthpiece. When everything was in place, Jean quickly tuned his instrument and warmed up, playing some scales so he didn’t become out of tune during his set. He blew air through it without making any sound just to breathe some warmth into the metal. 

Would he be able to impress Armin more than anyone else? He hoped so. It felt important to him - all this time, he had been talking about music non-stop, and now he had the opportunity to show his new friend how much it meant to him. Jean wanted Armin to love it as much as he did. He wanted a connection with _someone_ now that his friends didn’t play any longer - he wanted someone who cared for music as much as he did. He wanted that person to be Armin.

When his hands started to get cold, Jean decided to go back in. He put the cap over his mouthpiece, adjusted his strap so the weight wasn’t reliant on one shoulder, grabbed his stand and headed back inside to wait for his set to begin.

* * *

Armin spotted Jean as soon as the doors opened and he came back outside. His attention immediately shifted when he heard him - he was excited because this was what he had been waiting for. Jean’s hair was pushed back out of his face and he was wearing a striped shirt tucked into washed-out jeans. With his saxophone in his hands, he looked like someone Armin might have seen on TV in a music video. He looked like he was concentrating, but as soon as their eyes met he broke out into a smile. Armin smiled back, leaning back in his seat as Jean took the mic and commanded the room. 

“Good evening.” His smile bordered on a smirk as he looked around, and he seemed so confident that it made Armin want to roll his eyes even though deep down he found it endearing. He didn’t waste time with his introductions, only speaking briefly before he started to play. 

With no backing track and no other instruments to support him, it would have been easy for Jean’s single saxophone to sound out of place to a lively crowd of people, but as Armin found immediately, the room was spellbound as he started to play. Armin didn’t know what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t this - it was an entirely different experience being right there in front of him instead of just hearing his music coming up through the floorboards of his grandfather’s home. 

Jean’s music started slowly. Armin didn’t recognise the piece he was playing, or if this was something Jean had written himself, but he wanted to hold onto the melody forever. It felt like magic, like a moment shared between the two of them, even though there must have been a hundred people crowded into the small village pub. Did everyone else feel that way? Armin wondered if it was just him, or if every other person felt like Jean’s music was connecting them to him. From the looks on their faces and the conversations that had died out it seemed that way. The mood shared between them all was that this was special. That _Jean_ was special. 

There was an emotion Armin couldn’t describe, one that bloomed in his chest and spread through his whole body. It made his stomach tight and his fingers tingle. It made him not want to blink. It made him wish that Jean would play to him forever. Was this what Jean chased after with his music? Was this the feeling he was addicted to? He’d laughed earlier when Jean said there was nothing music couldn’t fix, but now he understood what he meant. 

When he finished playing the first piece there were a few seconds of silence before the applause began. Jean’s eyes opened and immediately focused on Armin’s, and the surge that rushed through him made Armin forget about everyone else in the room. He saw something pass over Jean’s face that almost looked like relief before he smiled and thanked everyone. Armin’s heart was racing. 

His music picked up after that; the next two songs were lively, and around Armin, conversations started to spring back up as people shared drinks and had a good time. Armin had nobody to talk to - he just sat at the small table alone, looking at Jean and listening to him play. He didn’t want Jean’s set to end, and when he put his sax down, Armin was disappointed until he realised that Jean wasn’t finished yet. 

“I’m going to do something a little different for my last song,” he said into the mic, a small grin on his face. “It’s about time I stop holding out on you guys.”

Armin looked around, confused, as Jean moved the mic over to the piano and adjusted its height, lowering it down. He sat on the stool, flashed one more grin at the audience, and seemed to take a single deep breath before his fingers found the right keys and the opening chord rang out. This was different again - Armin felt his chest tighten up even more, and when he realised that Jean was about to start singing, he was sure his heart was going to burst from beating so hard. 

Jean’s voice wasn’t loud, and it didn’t have the edge of his usual speaking tone. He sounded… soft, Armin thought. He sounded nothing like himself, but it was still distinctly _Jean,_ and Armin couldn’t believe he had this much talent. He’d never mentioned being able to sing before, and Armin didn’t even know he was so good at the piano, but he was enchanting. 

It was a piece Armin knew from the pile of records Jean had left for him to listen to, an old, slow love song from the thirties that had stirred something within him when he heard it for the first time. Hearing it live from Jean gave the song a different meaning, more like he was longing for the love the lyrics portrayed, and it brought tears to Armin’s eyes. He was sure every girl in the room, though there weren’t many of their age in the village, was absolutely smitten with Jean, and Armin couldn’t blame them, even though the thought made his chest ache. He sang like he was speaking directly to him, but Armin knew that was just his charm. 

_“If you'll only grant me the right,”_ Jean sang, _“to hold you ever so tight, and to feel in the night the nearness of you.”_

The lyrics ended there, but Jean kept playing, humming the melody over the ending chords as tears streamed down Armin’s cheeks. He didn’t know why he was crying so much, but it was like the song had spoken straight to his heart. Maybe it was because deep down he felt so lonely. 

Maybe it was because he wished Jean were saying those words to him. 

Armin clenched his jaw and felt himself crumble inwards, not knowing what that meant for himself. The emotions that had been building up within himself ever since meeting Jean were so confusing. Was it just friendship, or was he lying to himself? He’d been alone for so long, Armin didn’t know if he could tell the difference any more. All he knew was that he wanted Jean near him. 

Wiping the tears from his eyes, Armin couldn’t even bring himself to clap along with the others as the song ended. For some reason he had expected there to be some kind of stunned silence, but past the initial surprise nobody was acting like this was anything too out of the ordinary. They clapped and cheered, and then Jean was saying his thank-yous and picking up his sax. All the while, Armin cried. 

“Hey,” a voice whispered as the next performer got set up. Armin felt a hand on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw the girl from before, Sasha. “You okay?”

“I’m okay,” Armin sniffed unconvincingly. She sat down on the chair opposite and pushed Armin’s glass of water towards him. 

“He’s great, isn’t he?”

“He’s amazing.”

“I haven’t seen you around before,” she mentioned, giving him a little smile as she opened a packet of crisps. “You from the city?”

“Yeah,” Armin nodded. Finally, his tears were drying up. “I’ve never seen live music like this before.”

“Wait, _seriously?”_ Sasha exclaimed with her mouth full. “No wonder you’re crying!”

“Is that a common thing?”

“Sure it is,” she nodded. “I get teary every time. Music’s more powerful when it’s happening right there, I think. But-”

“Armin.” Jean’s voice cut loudly through the crowd, and Armin looked up at him with wide eyes as he pushed his way over to their table. 

“Jean…”

“Hey, Jean,” Sasha said, poking Jean in the arm and pulling him in for a hug. She seemed completely oblivious to the way Connie was watching with jealousy from the bar and the moment between Jean and Armin. “Great set.”

“Thanks,” Jean murmured, hugging her back before looking down at Armin. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Go?” Armin asked, sniffing again. “Go where?” 

“Come on, just follow me,” Jean said. “The rain stopped. You look like you need some air.”

“It was nice to meet you,” Armin said to Sasha quickly, barely even able to grab his coat before Jean was walking away. 

“You too!” She waved and gave him a thumbs up. 

Armin rushed to keep up with Jean, slipping through groups of people stood watching the next performer. He wanted to take his hand so he could keep up, but he didn’t, instead holding onto his coat so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. 

Outside, the rain had cleared up and there were patches of stars visible through the gaps in the clouds. It was much colder, especially in comparison to the warmth of the pub. Armin pulled his coat tightly around him and looked up at Jean, almost unsure of what to say. He saw him in a different light now. It was like they were closer.

“Well?” Jean asked, leaning against the wall. “What did you think?”

“What… what did I think? I don’t even know where to start… you were amazing.”

Armin looked at Jean again, barely able to stand making eye contact for more than a second, but he saw a hint of worry on his face. 

“You think?”

“Of course! I’ve never felt like that before, but now I _get_ it. I get why you love music so much now. Live, like that… being right there…”

Jean smiled; to Armin’s surprise, he looked relieved. He picked up his saxophone case and gestured for Armin to follow him.

“I’m glad,” he said as they started to walk. “I wanted you to experience something like that.”

“You gave it to me.”

“As long as you thought I was the best, I’m happy.”

“Obviously…” Armin murmured shyly. “When you started to sing, I... “

“You started crying,” Jean finished the sentence for him. “I get it. It just means you love music.”

“Have you ever cried like that?”

“Me? No. Never.”

“Doesn’t that mean you don’t love music?” Armin teased a little bit. 

“Oh, shut up. Don’t make me admit it.”

“You just did! You’ve cried at live music too, right?”

“Maybe once or twice,” he admitted. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“Got it,” Armin smiled like it was their secret. “I didn’t even know you could sing!”

“I’ll have to sing more, then. You liked it?”

“It was my favourite part.”

“Next time, I’ll sing my whole set.”

“I liked that song, too. It was one of my favourites that you picked out for me.”

“You listened to those?”

“Of course I did! You chose them for me.”

Jean looked away when Armin said that, and in the low light, Armin couldn’t make out his expression. He would have given anything to know what he was thinking.

“Come on. Let’s go for a walk on the beach,” Jean said, changing the topic.

“This late?”

“How old are you, twelve? It’s not even ten o’clock yet.”

“Hey,” Armin pouted. “I still have to drive home, you know.” 

“Offer still stands to stay at my place.” 

“It’s okay,” Armin shook his head, his cold cheeks warming up when he blushed. “Let’s just go to the beach for a little while.”

They walked down the small hill to the shore. Despite all the rain from earlier, the sea was calm, waves rolling slowly up sand. High tide made the beach narrow, but there was still more than enough room for them to walk side-by-side. Nobody else was there; it seemed like everyone was still enjoying the night of music which could still be faintly heard as a hum in the distance. When it was just them, Armin preferred the sound of the sand crunching under their boots.

Jean set down his case, picked up a flat stone still wet from the rain, and threw it as hard as he could into the ocean. It landed with a splash in the distance.

“I’ve always been shit at skimming stones,” he chuckled. “I never got the hang of it.”

“Was that your attempt?” Armin laughed. “You just threw it.”

“Oh, I’d like to see you try!”

“Fine,” Armin laughed, bending down to find a good skimming stone of his own. He walked up to the shoreline, daring the waves to get his feet wet. With a flick of his wrist he sent the stone skimming four times along the surface, and when it finally sank under the water Armin turned back to look at Jean triumphantly.

“Alright, showoff!” Jean laughed. “But can you do this?”

Jean picked up another stone and threw it into the water, sending it absolutely flying. 

“Of course I can’t! You must be ten times stronger than I am!”

“Maybe _five_ ,” Jean teased, watching as Armin skimmed another stone successfully. “Are you going to show me how to do that or not?”

“Sure,” Armin told him. “Get a flat stone. Make sure it’s smooth and not too big.”

They spent a minute searching until Armin found one that was perfect. He took it back to Jean, who immediately held it the wrong way. 

“Like that?”

“Not at _all_ , who taught you how to do this?” Armin laughed. 

“Nobody!” Jean said defensively.

“No wonder you can’t do it then,” Armin said. “Here. Hold it like this.”

Armin couldn’t help it; much like Jean had done when teaching him the piano, Armin reached up to move Jean’s fingers into the correct place. 

“Your hands are cold,” Jean murmured. 

“So are yours,” Armin replied, trying not to swallow and give away how much that simple touch affected him. “There. Hold it like that.”

“Huh? Oh, right. Yeah. The stone.”

“Yes, the stone,” Armin said. “Keep your wrist loose and throw it so the flat edge hits the water spinning.”

When Jean pulled his arm back and threw the stone, it fell right into the water. Armin couldn’t help but laugh as Jean pouted. 

“How the hell do you _do_ that? I did it just as you said!”

“Trial and error,” Armin told him. “Keep trying.”

“I got another one,” Jean said. “But… how do you hold it again?”

“You forgot already?”

“Yeah. I need you to show me.”

Armin felt his stomach tighten up again and he was glad that the light of the full moon wasn’t enough to give away his blush. He moved Jean’s fingers into the correct places again, lingering touches that made his hands cold but his heart feel like it was going to burn up. It was almost like it wasn’t winter at all. 

It took Jean three more attempts before he successfully skimmed a stone, and the cheer he let out upon watching the rock bounce over the water made it sound like he’d just won the lottery. 

“Take that!” He yelled. Armin laughed so hard that his stomach hurt, but he also found Jean oddly endearing like this. He seemed a lot looser than he normally was, like there was no stress to him at all, like he was at his absolute best. 

“Thank you,” Armin said without meaning to. The words just fell from him, and he had never meant them more. 

“Huh?” Jean asked as he turned back to look at him. “What for?”

“For this. For inviting me out here.”

“Well, thanks for coming,” Jean said, shoving Armin in the side playfully. “I like hanging out with you, _and_ I got to show off playing music. What could be better than that?”

Armin’s face broke out into a smile and tears filled his eyes again. The stone he had been about to throw into the ocean found its way into his pocket.

“You know what? I’m not sure.”

* * *

It was almost midnight when Jean finally walked Armin back to his car. 

“The ferry will have stopped running by now,” he said. “Do you know the way to the bridge across the river? And your way back from there?”

Armin nodded, unlocked the car, and reached over to pull a map from the glovebox. 

“I checked the route before I came,” he said. 

“Of course you did.” Jean rolled his eyes. “Seriously, though - please drive safely on those roads. They’re a complete bitch when it’s slippery.”

“I will,” Armin assured him. “Promise.”

There were a few seconds where neither of them wanted to be the first to say goodbye. 

“When can I see you again?” Jean asked. Armin swallowed. 

“Whenever you like,” he said. 

“Then don’t go.” 

He was joking, Armin knew, but he wanted so badly for Jean to mean it. 

“I have to,” he said, even though he didn’t. 

“How about the day after tomorrow? I’ll be at the shop in the morning, and then I have a shift at my other job, but… I could stop by in the evening?”

“I’ll make dinner,” Armin blurted out. “If… if you want. I owe you after you bought me lunch twice…”

“Sure,” Jean grinned before slapping the top of his car. “I like pasta. Now you’d better go home before you fall asleep at the wheel.”

“Okay. And… Jean?”

“Yeah?” 

“Thank you, again. I had… a really good time.”

“Me too.”

As Armin pulled out of the car park and the radio turned on, it felt like tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r5FNJdktwz8
> 
> That's the song Jean was singing. I was going to make it 'My Funny Valentine', but I thought I ought to save that one for later. If you liked this chapter please let me know what you think in the comments! I appreciate each and every one. :)
> 
> P.S. singing Jean this chapter was inspired by @limeli's amazing Jearmin fic, which you can read here!  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/24764992  
> Seriously, check out this fic. It's incredible, and I fall in love with it more and more every chapter.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean gets some bad news that causes a rift in his friendship with Bertholdt and Reiner; Armin tries to take his mind off it.

For the first time since Mr Arlert passed, Jean felt like everything was going his way. The sun was shining as he rode his bike through the woodland path to take his morning shift at the music shop, and his shoulders felt light without the weight of his sax. Tonight, Jean didn’t plan on practising at Armin’s place - in all honesty, he just wanted to spend some time with him. After their night at his village, he’d been itching to see Armin again, and he hadn’t been able to get him out his head. 

Making Armin cry wasn’t what Jean had wanted that night, at least until he saw the tears rolling down his cheeks. Seeing the pure emotion on his friend’s face and knowing his music had brought those feelings was the highest compliment he could have asked for, and Armin didn’t even have to say a word. That expression was all Jean could think about - how he looked like he was feeling a thousand different things all at once. He couldn’t help but feel proud that he’d rendered someone so well-spoken unable to say anything at all. 

Jean didn’t even feel the cold as he stood watching the city grow larger, waiting for the boat to cross the river. The wind was blowing harshly, but he didn’t care. He just had this  _ feeling, _ like the day was his and good things were going to happen. That mood lasted as he rode down the city streets with the wind blowing behind, pushing him on. It lasted as he locked up his bike, and put his helmet in the backpack that had replaced the spot his sax usually took.

It lasted until he turned around and saw a sign that read ‘Closing Down Sale’ in the music shop’s window. 

Jean’s heart stopped. He did a double-take and stared in disbelief. Was this some dodgy marketing technique, a bid to make people rush to buy things only to reveal that the shop wasn’t closing down after all? Jean didn’t know the legality of it, but he hoped that was the case anyway - this place couldn’t  _ close.  _ He needed it too much. 

Bursting through the door, the first thing Jean saw was Bertholdt flinching back from him at the counter. He looked resigned like he’d been expecting this. It made Jean’s heart sink. 

“Tell me it isn’t -”

“It’s true.” 

Jean shook his head. He didn’t want to believe it.  _ “Why?” _

“Why?” Bertholdt chuckled, but there was no humour to it. “We’re not making any money, Jean. Mum had enough. She’s selling this place so she can afford to move cities before the twins start school; we already have a buyer.”

“What? Are you kidding me? Don’t you live at home? Are you going with her?”

“No,” Bertholdt shook his head. “I’m moving in with Reiner.”

“But-”

“Look… I’m sorry. I went to the bank and sorted out your paycheck. You don’t have to come in after today - we’re closing next week.”

“No, fuck the paycheck,” Jean said, even though he very much needed it. “I don’t care. Why aren’t you fighting her on this?”

“Because - because we can’t keep it going anymore! She needs this money to move - we can barely afford it as it is, Jean.”

“But this - this stuff…”

“We’re donating what we can’t shift to the school.”

“No,” Jean breathed. “This place can’t  _ close _ , Bert. It just can’t. There isn’t another music shop in the city. What’s the point in even donating instruments when the kids won’t be able to buy the things they  _ need _ for them?”

“Jean,” Bertholdt sighed. “You just have to accept it. Maybe you can start a shop of your own someday.”

“Fuck that. This place was his favourite; you know that.”

They both knew that Jean was talking about Mr Arlert. Jean was still standing in the doorway, looking at Bertholdt desperately, wanting him to admit this was all some big joke.

“He’s not here anymore. We can’t keep it afloat without him.”

“We can keep trying!”

“I don’t  _ want  _ to!” Bertholdt exclaimed, his voice bordering on a shout. Jean took a step back; he couldn’t remember  _ ever _ having heard Bertholdt yell. 

“What…?”

“I don’t want to. I’m sick of this, I’m sick of music, I’m sick of all of it. I don’t want to do this anymore. I want to do what  _ I  _ want to do instead of just - working in my dad’s shop like he’s ever going to come back!” 

_ “What?” _ Jean yelled in return. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You said - you said we’d keep going! You said you’d help us with the composition!”

“I can’t keep doing this! I hate... I don’t want anything to do with music. I’m tired. I’m done.”

“No, you don’t get it, Bertholdt. Music can  _ help  _ you. It’s a way to forget about all of this. You can use it -”

“You’re not listening to me, Jean,” Bertholdt sighed. “This isn’t my dream. It was my dad’s, at he made that very clear when he packed up and left us to go off with his stupid band. My dream has never been, and never  _ will _ be music. I - don’t want to do this anymore. I  _ can’t  _ do it anymore. All it does is remind me of him.”

“You think it’s not the same for me?” Jean argued. “My dad -”

“No, it’s not the same! You weren’t just forced into this -”

“So you didn’t want to, all this time?”

“What?”

“Us. Me, you and Reiner. Did you  _ ever _ actually care about that?” Jean asked. He was so hurt he couldn’t do anything but clench his fists and stare at the man he thought was supposed to be his friend.

“You’re twisting my words.”

“No, I’m not,” Jean snapped. “You’re avoiding the question.”

“Of course I cared about you guys,” Bertholdt said. “And if you cared about me, you wouldn’t force me to do it anymore. The shop, or the band.”

“Reiner’s with you on this, isn’t he?”

“He… supports me.”

“You told him already,” Jean said, hurt. “Before you told me?”

“Because I knew you’d react like this!”

“I’m sorry for being upset that this meant  _ nothing  _ to you!” Jean exclaimed. “I was worried about you! I was trying to help!”

“And I appreciate that Jean, but -”

“No,” Jean shook his head. “Forget it. Just forget it.”

Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out, frustrated and hurt. The cold hit him in the face as he left the shop, but Jean ignored it, focusing on unlocking his bike so he could get the hell away from one of the last places he had left in the city that gave him music. 

Jean pedalled towards Armin’s place, not knowing where else to go until his shift at the restaurant began later that day. Pushing himself, Jean started to get tired fast, but he refused to slow down, wanting to match the frantic pace of his thoughts. Jean knew he had to tell Armin that it was unlikely they’d be able to hear the composition as intended, but he didn’t want him to be disappointed. That piece was for the four of them, but they were down to two now. 

_ He supports me. _ Yeah. Reiner was taking Bertholdt’s side; there was no doubt about it.

* * *

Armin was still in bed tucked under the covers when he heard the knock on the door. The first thought that came to mind was to ignore it, but thinking it might be important, Armin reluctantly threw on some clothes and wrapped his blanket around his shoulders, shuffling down two flights of stairs to get to the front door, and was surprised to see Jean through the peephole. 

“Did I get the time wrong?” He asked. He was worried already, but looking up to see that Jean looked as if he’d been crying made that anxious feeling increase tenfold. “Jean…?”

“Can I come in?” Jean croaked, looking upset and angry, which made Armin worry that he’d done something wrong. 

“Of course you can,” he said, standing aside so Jean could come in. “A-are you cold? Do you want something to drink?”

“Okay,” Jean said quietly.

“Hot chocolate?” 

“Mm.”

It was strange to see him so upset. Armin didn’t like it - the atmosphere was slightly off. Jean wasn’t like this. He was supposed to be the happy-go-lucky one, the cheerful one, the one who always cheered  _ Armin _ up. When Armin thought like that it was odd to him that they’d only been friends for a few weeks, but it was true. He felt close to Jean. 

Armin had to try and return the favour and make him feel better. 

Jean sat on the stool in the kitchen that was now permanently adjusted for his height while Armin busied himself by making drinks for them both. When he was little and upset about something, Armin’s mum always made hot chocolate to cheer him up, a small treat that they could afford back then. He made it the way she always used to and put it down in front of Jean with a small smile.

“Do you… want to talk about it?” Armin asked, sitting down on the stool beside Jean.

“It’s that obvious I’m upset, huh?”

“Yeah. That’s not bad, though.”

Jean let out a long sigh and sat for a second, shoulders slumping as he warmed his hands with the mug of hot chocolate. 

“Bertholdt’s family is selling the shop.”

“The music shop?” Armin asked. Jean nodded. “No way…”

“I know.”

“Why?”

“It’s a family shop, and they can’t afford to keep it running. I said he should keep trying, but…”

“It’s not possible?”

“No. And that’s not even what I’m so mad about! It’s because Bert decided that he’s quitting music. He’s just giving up.”

“Wait - what? I thought you guys loved playing together?”

“So did I,” Jean sighed. “Seems like I was wrong, though.”

Armin’s heart hurt for him. If he could play at Jean’s level, he would make music with him all the time, but he would ever be a good enough replacement no matter how much he wished for it. 

“I’m sure he’s just… upset, maybe? He might need some time. If he’s sad the shop is closing-”

“He’s not sad, that’s the point. He wants it to close.” Jean sighed and ran his hands through his hair, pushing it back out of his face. “It pisses me off because he’s wasting his talent. And I don’t know how we’re going to finish this composition when we only have two players.”

“Is Reiner against helping too?”

“Reiner sided with Bertholdt. They’re moving in together.”

“Oh. Jean… I’m sorry.”

“It’s frustrating,” Jean said, his voice cracking as he spoke. “But I know music is painful for him as well... I just want him to get past his hangups and realise how much potential he has.”

“It’s painful for him?” Armin asked. “Is it okay if I ask why?”

“Why not,” Jean said. He paused for a second to take a sip of his hot chocolate, smiling for the first time since he’d arrived when he tasted it. “That shop belongs to Bertholdt’s family. I think his dad opened it years ago - it’s been there for as long as I can remember. Bertholdt’s dad was nice enough, I guess. I always liked him. I think it was about five years ago now, but Bert's mum got pregnant again, and he changed. When they found out they were having twins, he packed up his shit and left the whole family to go off touring with his band. That was that. Never came home.”

“What?” Armin asked softly, shaking his head in disbelief. “You can’t be serious…”

“I wish I were joking,” Jean said. “But no. Bert dropped his plans of going to uni and took over the shop because his mum had to get a job as well. I started helping out, and things were going well for a few years, up until your grandfather died. After that, business just dried up.”

Armin paused for a second, biting his lip. He had no idea how that felt. His own parents had been ripped away from him, and it hurt more than anything, but Armin didn’t know the pain of a parent just packing up and walking out of their own volition. That was something that Jean and Bertholdt had gone through, and Armin couldn’t imagine how awful that feeling of betrayal must have been. 

“Jean… of course it would hurt him to keep playing music if it reminds him of his dad. And they can’t keep the shop open if they’re losing money.”

“I  _ know, _ ” Jean sighed frustratedly. “But… all those times we played together, that we had  _ fun _ together… why would he bother with that if he didn’t feel it too? I don’t get him. He knows he likes music. He’s being a coward.”

“He might just need some time,” Armin said, tentatively reaching out to put his hand on Jean’s shoulder, frowning when he slumped down onto the counter with a sigh. 

“I was a dick to him,” he sighed. 

“What did you say?”

“I walked out when I was supposed to be doing a shift, for one.”

“Jean…”

“He did say he cared. But I’m sure he was just saying it so I didn’t blow up on him.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t? What makes you say so, Sherlock?” Jean asked, looking up at Armin from where he lay slumped on the counter. He had hot chocolate on his top lip. 

“Well, when I met him, he seemed like a kind person,” Armin reasoned. “He comforted me even though we’d only just met. And like you said, he had no reason to play with you and Reiner outside of the shop if he didn’t want to. My best guess is that he’s just overwhelmed. Give him time.”

“Didn’t realise you were my therapist now,” Jean teased, but he did look relieved. “...Thanks.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Armin said. “I’m sorry about the shop.”

“Me too,” Jean murmured. “It just sucks. That place meant a lot to me.”

“I know. But you know you can still come here.”

Jean snorted. “You’re really cool with me coming around so much?”

“Of course I am.”

“You’re so weird.”

“How does that make me weird?”

“It just does,” Jean chuckled. “You probably should have kicked me out that time you caught me breaking in.”

“Oh, so  _ now  _ you admit you were breaking in?”

“I mean, I  _ did _ have a key, so…”

“There you go again.”

“Your fault for not kicking me out. You’re stuck with me now.”

Armin poked him in the side. “Fine by me.”

* * *

They finished their drinks and talked about other things for a while before returning to the dining room for a piano lesson, where Armin finally felt like he was making some progress. After a lot of practice, he was finally getting better at playing with his left and right hands simultaneously. Jean praised him; the attention went straight to his cheeks and turned them pink. When they were done, Armin told Jean about the jobs he’d been applying to, the ones at the bookshop and the museum. That prompted Jean to borrow Armin’s phone to call in sick to his job at the restaurant, reasoning that he’d earned a day off considering the circumstances and the fact that he hadn’t missed a single shift up until then. 

Jean’s mood seemed to have improved a little, but he was still obviously down. Armin understood the feeling of growing apart from friends; it had happened with his own when they were navigating their late teens. He missed the times they had together, and Armin was sure Jean was feeling the same way too, even if it was certain that things would patch up between the three of them with time. 

“It’s sunny,” Armin murmured when Jean came back in from talking to his boss on the phone.

“Good eye,” Jean teased. “I’m impressed.”

“Thanks,” Armin said sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “Did you get the day off?”

“Yep. Did you want to do something while the weather’s nice?”

“I was thinking you could show me around a bit... I still haven’t seen much of the city.”

Jean’s face lit up and he nodded. 

“Of course! We can take a break from clearing this place out and go sightseeing for a bit. Not that there are that many sights to see around here, but… still.”

“I’d love that.”

“Get your shoes on then,” Jean grinned. “And take your coat. It could start raining at any minute.”

Armin was smiling as he hopped off the piano stool and went to go and pull on his boots, yanking them up by the yellow strap at the back. He was lacing them up when Jean followed him out. He hung up his backpack next to Armin’s, which meant he was going to be coming back, and that made Armin happier than he could describe. Jean left such subtle little clues that he genuinely liked his company. To Armin, who overthought everything, it was wonderful. The evidence Jean left that showed he wanted him around was so incredibly reassuring, and all Armin could hope for was that he made Jean happy too. He wanted to cheer him up after the morning he had. If his favourite bookshop in his hometown shut down, Armin knew he would be devastated, but there were other bookshops. Bertholdt’s was the only music shop in the entire city; it was all Jean had. It had to hurt more than he was letting on. 

“So,” he asked, hoping to be able to take Jean’s mind off it as they left and shut the front door behind them. “Where are we headed?”

Jean got the creaky gate open with a good yank and let Armin walk through first. 

“Well, you like history, don’t you?”

“I love history,” Armin grinned, shocked that Jean remembered. 

“Want to see something cool, then?”

“What is it?” 

“Surprise. Come on. We’ll get some coffee on the way.”

“Okay.”

As they turned right down the road, Armin had to resort to speedwalking just so he could keep up with Jean’s long strides. It was chilly outside, but Armin always warmed up a little when he was outdoors walking somewhere. The streets passed by, each almost identical to the last. The only colours the sun brought out were blue from behind the clouds and the green of weeds poking up through cracks in pavement slabs. Even still, things looked just a little prettier when each and every grey building didn’t blend in with the sky. All the washing lines were high up and strung with clothes as people made the most of the sunny weather. Even though the trees were still bare and the air was cold, Armin couldn’t help but feel like spring had come in January. 

“Can you believe it’s forecast to snow tonight?” Jean asked, looking up as he walked. Armin kept his eyes on the ground, careful not to step on the weeds. 

“Is it?”

“Yeah. Not that it ever settles much down here. It always melts within a couple of hours when it does stick.”

“Where I’m from it snows a lot,” Armin said. “I never really got used to it, though.”

“You didn’t?”

Armin shook his head no. “I’m bad with the cold.”

“So that’s why your coat is so huge,” Jean chuckled.

“What’s wrong with my coat?”

“Nothing! It’s just huge on you. Mine would probably fit you better.”

“I like it,” Armin pouted. “It’s warm.”

“Looks it.”

In a small cafe, Jean bought them both coffee that came in polystyrene cups with plastic lids. The steam escaped through a tiny hole at the top; Armin made sure not to spill any as he followed Jean down the street, knowing it would burn his hands. The city centre was a little busier than usual, probably due to the good weather, and Armin was relieved for them both that Jean’s route didn’t seem to go anywhere near the music shop. 

“Where are you taking me?” Armin asked, daring to take a sip of coffee.

“You’ll see. We’re not far off now… though you might have seen this when you were driving in depending on which direction you came,” Jean replied. Armin hummed curiously. He trusted that Jean knew him well enough to take him somewhere he would like, but he still wondered where that might be, and what he was seeing. 

They walked down a steep hill that Armin wasn’t looking forward to climbing back up on the way home. At the bottom, they turned a corner and found themselves in front of a large roundabout where cars circled what was left of a once-impressive church. 

“Woah,” Armin breathed, looking up at it. There was no roof, no door, no windows - just the shell, the grey structure still standing on. It sat in a circle of grass that grew on the inside, too; ivy snaked its way up the walls and curled around gaps in the decorative windows where stained glass once lay. Armin stared at it from the other side of the double-lane roundabout, wishing there was a crossing so he could get a better look. 

“It got bombed in the war,” Jean explained. “The city decided to leave it there as it was. It’s a memorial now. Or a reminder.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It is, isn’t it?” 

“Yes,” Armin nodded. There was so much  _ history  _ there; it made him emotional. How many people had gone along with the structure of that building? People that had once stood where he stood. Had his grandfather lost friends? Did he sit in the house where Armin sat now, listening to the bombs dropping from planes? He wished he could have asked. He wished he could have known his stories with permission. They watched for a while, sipping their coffees until they were both done, then tossed the cups in the bin.

“Want to get a closer look?” Jean asked with a wicked grin, and Armin barely had time to open his mouth and ask how before Jean grabbed his wrist and pulled him out across the road, running faster than the cars coming their way. Armin screamed as he followed after without much of a choice, almost tripping as they crossed both lanes, and when they safely reached the other side, both of them fell into the grass in a pile.

“ _ Jean!”  _ Armin yelled, jumping to his feet before Jean had even moved. “We could have gotten hit by a car! We could get into trouble! It’s broad daylight and I don’t think we’re supposed to be-”

“Shh,” Jean grinned, lying back and laughing. “Live a little, yeah? We’re not going to get in trouble.”

“How do you know? We might!”

Jean got to his feet and brushed off his legs, still chuckling. 

“Then I’ll take the blame and say I forced you to come with me, how about that? Now come on. I know you wanted to see what it was like over here.”

“You’re not wrong… but  _ still. _ ”

“You’re a goody-two-shoes.”

“And you’re way too reckless!”

“Indulge me just once,” Jean grinned, not waiting for Armin before he set off to get inside the hollowed-out church. Armin looked around and huffed one more time before running after him, unable to deny that he felt a little thrill inside at doing something so exciting. 

“You’re unbelievable,” he called. 

“Come  _ on!” _ Jean yelled from ahead. “It’s amazing over here!”

Armin followed Jean around the corner, through the hole where a door had once been and found himself in what was once the main body of the church. There was no ceiling; it opened up the sky, and where there was once a stone floor and pews grass and bushes grew abundantly. There stood a memorial in place of an altar; it made Armin bite his lip. On it was listed every single name of someone in the city who had died in bombings that had destroyed that same church; according to the inscription, there were one thousand, two hundred of them. 

“Wow…” Armin said quietly. Like this, it was easy to forget that they were in the centre of a busy roundabout, no longer noticing the sound of cars and city life. 

“Wouldn’t it be cool to do a concert here or something?” Jean said. 

“I don’t know if that would be allowed,” Armin hummed. “It might be disrespectful. What we’re doing right  _ now _ is disrespectful. We’re not supposed to be here.”

“We’re not damaging anything,” Jean pointed out. “Don’t worry so much.”

“Still…”

“Don’t pretend you don’t think it’s cool,” Jean said, walking over to Armin and poking him, though Armin couldn’t feel it through how thick his coat was. 

“It’s a moment in time,” Armin said, looking up and seeing the clouds that were starting to form over the blue sky.

* * *

They stayed there for a little while before Armin got too nervous about being caught. Jean retook Armin’s hand before they ran back across both lanes to safety, and didn’t stop running until they were several streets away, laughing and panting, out of breath. From there, Jean took him down to the old cobbled streets by the ocean, showing him old statues and all the boats at the dockyard. 

Armin forgot all about the stress he had been under; he forgot about finding a job, forgot about the strange history of his grandfather, and just had a good time. They ate ice cream and almost froze to death while watching the tide roll out, then walked down the pier and messed around trying to win impossible prizes from the claw machines. Armin had never laughed so much in his entire life. 

It wasn’t until they were on the way home that Jean mentioned the argument. 

“I get angry too easily,” he murmured. It was late afternoon by then, and the sun was going down. Jean was kicking a stone along the ground as they walked side by side. “I should have just told him I was upset.”

“You still can,” Armin pointed out, but Jean just grumbled. 

“It’s embarrassing.”

“You told me, though.”

“Yeah well… you’re different.”

Armin blinked, slowing to a stop. Jean walked a few paces ahead before he noticed him standing there. 

“I’m different?”

“Well-” Jean seemed to recoil with embarrassment as he realised the implications of what he said. “Y-yeah, sort of. You just - you get it. You’re nice. Or whatever.”

Armin was confused. Bertholdt was nice from what he’d seen, so what set him apart? What did ‘you get it’ mean? He blinked, trying to work it out, his brain working fast to try and put the pieces together, but he was coming up blank. 

“I don’t understand.” 

“Don’t worry about it then!” Jean exclaimed, turning around and walking off so quickly that Armin had to run to catch up with him. 

“I think… you should tell him how you feel,” Armin said, choosing to ignore Jean’s other comment for now. He could analyse it later when Jean wasn’t there to see him blush. 

“He made it clear how he feels.”

“Did you say things you didn’t mean?”

“...Yeah.”

“Then maybe he did too,” Armin pointed out. “It would be good if you could have a mature conversation about it. As adults. Calmly.”

“Alright, mum,” Jean said sarcastically, but his shoulders slumped with resignation. “I just… I don’t want it to be true. Not just because of how I feel, but…”

“What?”

“Your grandfather saw something in him,” Jean said as they turned back onto Armin’s street. “I don’t know why Mr Arlert chose us as his students, but I like to think it was because he saw we were passionate about it, and Bert really  _ was.  _ I don’t know what else we all have in common. Well, other than our deadbeat dads… but still. Bertholdt loved music. Or at least I  _ thought _ he did.”

“I think he does,” Armin said. “But even if what he says is true, it doesn’t mean that it has to ruin music for you.”

“Nothing could ruin music for me. It just… sucks. I thought we were close friends, but he tells Reiner before he tells me, and then we have a fight…”

“That’s why you need to tell him how you feel - so you can still have a friendship. Talk to him, but listen to his side too. And don’t get mad at him.”

“Easier said than done,” “But… thanks.”

“It’s no problem,” Armin smiled, pushing the rusty gate open. “So… do you still want to stay for dinner?”

Jean smiled down at him, and it made Armin’s heart beat faster. 

“I’d love to.”


	10. Chapter 10

Armin didn’t know why, but Jean seemed surprised that he was good in the kitchen. On the day they met Armin was sure he had mentioned his interest in cooking, but Jean raised an eyebrow when he got out the ingredients to make pastry from scratch for a vegetable pie.

“Is it too much?” He asked, feeling a little embarrassed. “I didn’t want to just throw something in the oven and be done with it…”

“Not at all,” Jean grinned. He sat at the counter, peering over to watch what Armin was doing as if judging him with an expert stare. “I just didn’t expect you to make something from scratch.”

“This recipe is my dad’s. It’s been a while since I made it.”

Jean hummed. “What was he like?”

“My dad?” 

“Yeah. He was Mr Arlert’s son, right?”

“It sounds strange when you put it like that, but yes,” Armin explained, pausing to carefully measure out the flour down to the last gram. 

“Surely he has some great stories, then.”

“You’d be surprised,” Armin murmured, still concentrating. 

“Why?”

“He was actually… not that interesting,” Armin shrugged. “It sounds bad to say that, but… I suppose it’s true. I think he just worked in a factory during the war. Something about his eyesight.”

“So that’s where you get it from.”

“B-being boring?” Armin asked, looking up at Jean, a little hurt.

“No! The bad eyesight!”

“Oh.  _ Oh.” _

“You are such an idiot,” Jean laughed. “Do you really think I find you boring?”

“I - I just-”

“Why on earth would I have wanted to hang out with you all day if I thought that?”

“Sorry…”

“Don’t be.” Jean rolled his eyes. “I think you’re interesting.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, of course. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

Armin smiled just a little bit, looking down at the pie crust he was making as Jean tapped a spoon on the counter in rhythm to the song on the radio. He found Jean easy to believe when he said nice things about him. It was comforting for someone like him with such low self-confidence. 

“But… yeah. My parents were very normal,” Armin explained. “We didn’t have much money growing up. Mum and Dad both worked. We rented a flat in a tower block; I moved out when I went to uni and didn’t come home until I… had to sort out their things.”

“That must have been awful,” Jean said. His voice was quiet.

“I won’t pretend it wasn’t,” Armin breathed. “I was… all by myself.”

For a few moments, they both just listened to the music without saying a word, but then Armin heard the scrape of the stool’s legs against the tile as Jean got up and walked over. 

“Let me peel the potatoes,” he said, but Armin heard those words like Jean was saying ‘I’m here for you’. 

“Thanks,” he sniffed, refusing to look at Jean as he passed him the knife. 

“It’s okay.”

The topic changed as they worked. They talked about their trip out that day, neither thinking about their sadness - instead, they enjoyed the company of good music and each other. Armin was impressed by how quickly Jean could peel potatoes, and Jean rolled his eyes at how precise Armin was with each one of his measurements. The hot air of the oven blasted Armin in the face and fogged up his glasses when he opened it to put the pie inside to cook, and Jean laughed and plucked them off his face just to tease. 

“Shit, I forgot,” he said, handing Armin back his glasses before disappearing into the hallway. 

“What’s wrong?” Armin asked worriedly. He wiped off his lenses with his shirt and followed after him. 

“Nothing. Just forgot that I brought this.” Jean pulled out a bottle of wine from his bag and grinned. “Want a glass while we’re waiting?”

“I never drink,” Armin chuckled, but he felt tempted to give in. “Maybe just this once.”

“There you go.”

Back in the kitchen, Jean poured them two glasses of red wine, filling Armin’s a little higher than his own. Armin took a sip, forcing his thoughts to stay in check, to not spiral and go to a place where he imagined this evening as anything but platonic. Friends did this all the time. They had only known each other for a little while, anyway.

“Why don’t you drink, then?” Jean asked. 

“I never saw the appeal,” Armin shrugged, taking another sip. “Or had anyone to drink  _ with _ , for that matter.”

“Well, now you do.”

Jean raised his glass and knocked it gently against Armin’s like they were somewhat sophisticated, which made them both laugh. 

“I thought people our age just drank beer,” Armin smiled. “Or spirits.”

“You seemed like the wine type to me! I don’t know, I just picked what I thought you’d like.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know, you’re… you know. Kind of fancy?”

“Fancy?  _ Me?” _

“I don’t know, don’t question me,” Jean laughed. “You’re into history, and wine is old…”

Armin was taking a sip when Jean said, that and he almost choked because he laughed so hard. 

“You’re ridiculous,” he spluttered, covering his mouth with his hand. “That doesn’t make any sense at all.”

“Maybe not, but it made you laugh.”

* * *

Time passed quickly as Jean and Armin chatted, and when the timer went off it startled them both. Armin was in a good mood, and it seemed that Jean was also feeling miles better than he had that morning. They had spent the whole day together, but Armin didn’t feel drained like he normally did after spending a lot of time around other people. He felt  _ great.  _

As the dining room didn’t actually have a table, Armin and Jean ate in the kitchen, pretending they couldn’t see the dishes that needed to be washed. Armin would do it later, he thought, after Jean went home. Being a little tipsy from the wine made the food taste better and everything they said funnier. Armin was laughing so hard by the end of the meal that his jaw ached and it hurt to chew. 

“Thank you,” Jean said when they were done. “That was really good.”

“It’s the least I could do,” Armin replied. He picked up the empty plates and rinsed them off in the sink while Jean refilled their glasses, shaking his head. The world felt a little bit fuzzy and his cheeks were rosy but Armin was still sober enough to act mostly normal. “I’m glad you liked the recipe.”

“You’ll have to give it to me. I want to try making it myself.”

With his back turned to Jean, Armin let himself smile warmly at the compliment. He didn’t want Jean to go; he felt like a kid again, annoyed that his friend had to go home. 

“Do you want to stay a little longer?” He asked. 

“I probably should sober up before I ride home,” Jean agreed. 

“Oh,” Armin said, feeling bad. “I didn’t think… I should have offered to drive you before I drank anything.”

“Don’t be silly. I offered.”

“If you’re sure…”

“I am. Actually… can we try something?”

Armin tried desperately to ignore the things his mind jumped to when Jean said that. 

“Sure... but what is it?”

“The skylight up on the roof,” Jean said. “Does it open wide enough to climb out?”

“Jean… are you serious?”

“I want to try and get on the roof! Come on, Armin, you don’t have to go out there. I just want to try.”

“It’s a bad idea.”

“Maybe so. But it’s also a  _ fun _ idea.”

“...Fine.”

Ignoring the dishes for the time being, Armin led Jean up two flights of stairs to the loft bedroom where he slept. It was still more bare-looking than any other room in the house, but that was mainly because unlike his grandfather, Armin was very neat. There was a careful stack of books by his bed, and on a small table Armin had found for free outside someone’s house sat a record player and a few of the albums Jean had recommended to him. He was a little embarrassed when Jean noticed. He was embarrassed to have someone else in his room at  _ all,  _ and busied himself by putting on the record he had last been listening to. 

“Why don’t you sleep in the master bedroom?” Jean asked as he walked over to the skylight and pushed it open. A gust of cold air blew inside and Armin shivered. 

“It feels too weird,” he shrugged, tracing his finger around the rim of his wine glass. “All of his personal things are in there.”

“Did you end up looking at the rest of that stuff?”

Armin shook his head. 

“I couldn’t,” he admitted. “I felt too guilty.”

“Why? He’s not haunting this place, is he?”

“Jean!”

“I’m joking, I’m joking,” Jean said. Armin noticed that he’d brought the bottle of wine up with him and was now just drinking out of it even when he said he had to sober up. “But seriously though. I thought someone like you would be all over that stuff.”

“That’s kind of the thing... I’m desperate to know.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“I… I’m not quite sure. It just doesn’t feel right yet.”

“Suit yourself, I guess,” Jean said, and hoisted himself up and out of the window so quickly that it made Armin’s stomach clench. 

“Jean, I really don’t think-”

“Armin, you have to come out here! This is awesome.”

When Jean sounded excited like that he couldn’t resist; Armin drained the last of his wine and set the glass down before going to the window and nervously climbing out onto the slate roof. He scrambled up, clinging on to the sides as he awkwardly pulled his legs through. 

It was cold, a little windy, and absolutely exhilarating. Armin felt like he could fall off at any moment, and he wobbled slightly before Jean caught his arm, making sure he was steady. They sat side by side, looking out along Armin’s road at streetlights that got smaller as they stretched out into the distance. Cars driving a while away could still be heard, but it created a nice atmosphere in unison with the music playing from his room. Once he’d caught his balance and was sure he wasn’t going to slide off, Armin felt excited. 

“It _ is _ awesome up here,” he breathed. 

“You haven’t done this before?”

“I didn’t have the courage.”

“You’re such a wimp.”

“And?”

Jean paused and looked at him like he was thinking about saying something but decided against it. 

“Nothing. Want some more?” Jean offered the wine bottle to Armin. 

_ An indirect kiss  _ \- that was the first thought that came to Armin’s mind before he scolded himself for being so childish. He was acting like that meant anything at all. It was a silly thought, but still, he couldn’t resist and took a sip from the bottle where Jean’s mouth had just been. He shivered. 

“It’s freezing,” he said, hoping to pass it off as being cold, which he was - but what made him shiver was how close he was to Jean.

“Want my jacket?” 

“H-huh?” 

“Are you deaf?”

“No - um - I just - aren’t _ you _ cold?” Armin asked, hating his brain for never being able to keep up when Jean said things like that. He would have blamed it on the wine, but Armin couldn’t deny that he was always like this when Jean was near.

“Not really,” Jean shrugged. “Look, I’m not going to _ force  _ you to-”

“I’ll take it!” Armin blurted out far too loudly. Jean just laughed and shook his head like he found him funny, taking off his jacket and putting it over Armin’s shoulders for him. 

“It makes you look even tinier,” he teased, but there was no bite to it. 

They scooted closer together, both of them looking away like they were pretending they didn’t notice. Armin pulled Jean’s jacket tight around him, feeling instantly warmer. It smelled like him and that made Armin’s heart race; he wondered if he could get away with keeping it. For a while, neither of them said a thing - they just listened to the record playing from inside and watched the clouds forming into dark shapes above them. A clear sky never lasted long in their town. 

Jean laid back on the slate with his arms above his head, humming along to the music. His voice was so surprisingly soft, Armin thought - he would never have expected that he could sound so sweet, but was there anything Jean couldn’t do? Armin just closed his eyes and leaned back to listen to him. The world was spinning but it felt good. They were both so tipsy they couldn’t feel the cold at all anymore. Armin felt so relaxed that he could have fallen asleep if he wasn’t busy trying to savour every second of their evening. 

When the next song came on, Jean began to sing rather than just humming. Armin felt it in his whole body, lighting up his nerves, making him tingle from his shoulders, down his back, and through his legs. Jean’s voice was the most beautiful sound in the world, he thought. He closed his eyes and felt like he was drifting away. 

“You’ve got a really, really nice voice,” he murmured, surprised by how slurred his words came out - it made him giggle. 

“Oh, you’re drunk,” Jean said, but he sounded just as bad. 

“So are you!” Armin laughed. He reached out to take the bottle of wine they’d been passing back and forth and shook it to show it was empty. 

“Maybe a little bit…”

“More than a little bit!”

“I’m definitely less drunk than you!”

“Yeah,” Armin laughed. He felt light, like if he jumped he’d just float down to the ground. “That’s true. But… I still meant what I said about your voice.”

“Thanks,” Jean said, turning to look at him. When Armin did the same, he realised how close their faces were. The tingling feeling in his body became more intense, like it was urging him to get even closer. 

“It’s my pleasure,” he murmured. 

Jean had such nice eyes. Had he ever noticed that before? 

“You know, we should play together there next time.”

“At the pub?”

“Mm.”

“Jean… I would embarrass myself.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You’d be great. I think you’ve got potential.”

“Thanks…” Armin trailed off. It was easier to accept a compliment when he was tipsy. “You have to keep teaching me though.”

“Of course I will,” Jean smiled. “It’s fun for me.”

“Really?”

“Mm. I like spending time with you. You actually care…”

Armin felt sad knowing that Jean was thinking about Reiner and Bertholdt - it made him want to reach out and take his hand.

“I like spending time with you too,” he said.

They smiled at each other. 

“Look,” Jean said. “It’s snowing.”

Neither of them looked away. 

“How come I’m not cold anymore?” Armin whispered.

“You’re drunk,” Jean chuckled, repeating himself. He looked so  _ soft.  _

“I feel nice.”

“You are nice.”

“Not as nice as you…”

“You have a snowflake on your cheek.”

Armin’s breath hitched when Jean reached up to brush it off. His stomach felt tight and his heart was pounding. Why was Jean looking at him like that? Why wasn’t he pulling back? His thumb was a little rough on his cheek and Jean smelled like wine. It was like he’d been turned inside out, and Armin could feel his blood rushing through his ears as he stared into Jean’s eyes. 

Just as it felt as if something was about to happen, Jean pulled back.

“What was that?” He asked, sitting up so fast it left Armin winded. Reeling, Armin’s drunken mind couldn’t keep up - what had just happened? Did Jean - did Jean almost just  _ kiss  _ him, or was he going insane? 

“W-what?” Armin stuttered. Finally looking up, he saw the snow falling down onto them, barely there, not even nearly enough to stick. 

“Did you hear that?” 

“Hear what?”

“Sounded like a cat…” Jean leaned over and squinted at the garden, wobbling slightly - Armin was so scared that he was going to fall that he grabbed the back of Jean’s shirt and yanked him back. 

“What are you  _ doing?” _

“I heard a cat down there!” Jean said. “I think it’s Stevie…”

“Oh.”

There was a snowflake on Jean’s eyelash, Armin noticed. It was pretty.  _ He  _ was pretty. Why had he never let himself notice before? He had such nice eyes - they were the perfect hazel colour and lit up when he laughed. His nose was sharp like his jawline, but he could still look so _ soft… _

“Armin,” Jean said loudly. “Are you seriously this drunk from a couple glasses of wine?”

“I told you I don’t drink…”

“We need to get inside,” Jean laughed. Armin laughed with him. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?” 

Armin nodded, and suddenly realised he needed to get himself together. “I’m okay. I’m good.”

“Yeah, you sound it,” Jean said sarcastically. “Come on. In. Before you fall off the bloody roof.”

“You were just about to!” Armin protested, but he let Jean guide him back inside where it was warmer and much safer.

“Come on, and don’t trip,” Jean said firmly. “Let’s go find that cat. He’s probably freezing.”

When they got downstairs they didn’t even need to look; as soon as Armin opened the front door, Stevie darted inside into the warmth, meowing. 

“He must have been right at the door…” Armin murmured, bending down to look at the cat’s matted fur. He felt a little more in control of himself now. How much of his giddy drunkenness was caused by proximity to Jean and not the wine?

“He’s shivering.”

“And filthy.”

“Poor thing,” Jean said, squatting down to get a closer look. “You cold, Stevie?”

Stevie just rubbed his body against Jean’s leg, and Armin laughed as Jean pulled a face at the smell. 

“He’s probably hungry. I don’t know if I have anything he can eat here…”

“We’ll deal with that once he’s clean and warm.” Jean inspected the cat’s fur, seeing how dirty and matted it was. 

“Do you think we could get him in the bath…?” Armin asked.

“It’s going to be a nightmare,” Jean said. “But we’ve got to. Let’s do it.”

“How…”

“You go run the bath, I’ll pick him up.” 

Maybe he was quite drunk after all, Armin thought - the world began to spin a little as he made his way back up the stairs to get to the bathroom. It was anything but bad, though - when was the last time he’d felt this happy? When was the last time he’d felt this close to someone? Was it okay? 

Was it okay to feel like this?

When Armin closed the bathroom door and sank against it, everything caught up to him all at once. They had nearly kissed. Whether Jean had meant to or not, Armin had been about to do it, and only a  _ cat _ saved him from making an utter fool of himself. He raised his hand to his face, touching the same spot where Jean had brushed the snowflake from his cheek. He was burning red, hands shaking, eyes squeezed shut as he remembered the feeling. 

“Oh, god,” he murmured. 

He didn’t even have time to panic, though; suddenly, Armin was jolted forwards as Jean tried to open the door he was leaning against. He scrambled to his feet, trying to look normal. 

“I thought you were going to run the…” Jean trailed off, looking at him with Stevie sat in his arms. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to throw up.”

“I’m not!” Armin exclaimed, shaking his head. “S-sorry! I’m fine, I’ll just… yeah, I’ll sort it out. Sorry.”

“You’re being weird,” Jean said flatly. “Are you okay?”

“Fine!” Armin panicked as he turned the taps on for the bath, making sure it was warm enough but not too hot. “I’m fine.”

“Just… please throw up in the toilet if you’re going to,” Jean said. 

Armin nodded then stood back against the wall nervously while Jean attempted to lower Stevie into the water. It was clear that the poor cat was panicking horribly, unable to understand what was going on or why he was suddenly being lowered into the water. The bath wasn’t even very full, but Stevie kicked up a huge fuss and Armin had to intervene to stop Jean from getting horribly scratched. 

“It’s not working!” Jean said, unable to help laughing due to sheer overwhelming panic and the intensity of the situation. 

“Hold him still,” Armin instructed, grabbing a sponge that he was willing to sacrifice to clean the cat off as best he could. 

“Get the shampoo,” Jean told him.

“No! You can’t use human shampoo on a cat, are you crazy?”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s for humans-”

“It’s just soap-”

“Why would cat shampoo exist if it was okay to use human shampoo?” Armin asked, wetting the sponge. As he turned back again, both of them realised that while they had been bickering Stevie had calmed down a little bit. He seemed to have realised it was warm - though it was clear he was still tense, the cat tentatively relaxed to investigate, curious. 

“He’s cute,” Jean murmured, pulling back slowly to see if Stevie would be alright. He got up and went to wash his hands at the sink. 

“He is,” Armin agreed.

“Probably hasn’t had a bath in years.”

“You think?”

“Smells like it.”

Armin snorted and rolled his eyes. Now he was feeling less tipsy, Armin was able to focus as he started using the sponge to gently clean off the cat’s fur. Surprisingly, Stevie allowed him. 

“It must be nice after being dirty for so long, huh?” He asked, trying to ignore the feeling of Jean watching. 

“I imagine so.”

“So… what… what happens after this? I don’t want to make him go into the cold…”

“The shops will be shut by now,” Jean said. “Are you sure you don’t have anything he can eat? What do cats eat anyway?”

“Meat,” Armin told him. “And I don’t have any. But I could give him some fruit for now.”

“How do you know so much about cats?” 

Armin shrugged. “I just do, I guess.”

“Do you know everything?”

“Clearly not,” Armin murmured. “Or you wouldn’t be my teacher.”

“Good answer,” Jean laughed. He knelt down beside Armin and reached out to stroke Stevie’s now clean-ish head, which made him purr. 

“He can stay for as long as he likes,” Armin said. “It’s too cold to send him back out.”

“He’s never been interested in coming in before,” Jean noted. “Poor thing.”

“I didn’t take you to be a cat person.”

“I’m not!” 

“Sure,” Armin laughed. “I’ll take your word for it.”

* * *

By the time they finished washing Stevie, Armin could think straight again. His head was hurting considerably, but he ignored the pain, instead focusing on making sure their new guest would have a comfortable, warm spot next to the radiator. The old stray curled right up by the warmth and fell asleep not long after he finally ate some fruit and got dry. 

“It’s late,” Armin said softly as he and Jean stood side by side, watching.

“It is,” Jean replied. 

Armin wondered if Jean was thinking about what happened on the roof. Or, what  _ almost _ happened on the roof. He touched his cheek again; he still felt warm. 

“I can drive you home. I feel okay now.”

“Don’t be silly, Armin. I’ve never seen someone get so drunk off half a bottle of wine. I’ll be surprised if you even remember this tomorrow,” Jean teased. 

“I’m  _ fine _ ,” Armin insisted. 

“Besides, it’s probably still snowing.”

“Then you can’t ride your bike! That’s dangerous, too.”

“I’ll be fi-”

“Stay here,” Armin interrupted. He hadn’t even meant to - it just slipped out. “If - if you want!”

“Are you sure?” 

There was a blush on his face as Armin nodded. “Yeah.”

“I’ll take the sofa, then.” 

The fact that Jean hadn’t asked to take his grandfather’s room spoke volumes to his character. It meant a lot to Armin to know that Jean listened to and respected his wishes, and he wondered how anyone could ever think badly of him, or why Jean sometimes described himself as an asshole. 

“You take my bed,” Armin said. “I can take the sofa.”

“No, seriously,” Jean said. “I’d rather take the sofa; your room is cold as hell.”

Armin laughed. “It is. I have about ten blankets in there.”

“Then yeah, let me have the sofa.” 

“Okay. But I don’t think either of us will be as comfy as Stevie is right now.”

“He’s living the life,” Jean chuckled, bending down to stroke him. 

“Tomorrow I’ll go out and buy some things for him.”

“Want me to come?”

“You’d want to?”

“Sure, why the hell not. It’s not like I’m going to be at the shop, and I don’t have work at the restaurant.”

“I’m surprised you’re not sick of me,” Armin shook his head. 

“I could say the same,” Jean grinned. “But you’re not, so I won’t complain.”

Armin bit his lip and blushed harder, looking for any excuse to change the subject.

“Is it still snowing?” He asked. The opportunity to turn away and hide his red face was welcome and Armin made his way over to the window in the living room. He pulled open the curtains and gasped when he saw the snow coming down  _ hard,  _ already settling on the ground. 

“Holy shit,” Jean breathed, looking from the window to Stevie. “It’s like he knew.”

“I’m glad you didn’t ride home…”

“Aw, would you worry about me?”

Armin blushed so hard he couldn’t even think of something funny to quip back in return. 

“Of course I would,” he murmured. 

Jean just smiled but didn’t say anything back.

* * *

Later that night, Armin lay awake in bed, feeling the absence of the blankets he’d lent to Jean. It was cold enough that he’d convinced himself that it was okay to bring Jean’s jacket into the bed with him, wrapping it around himself. He’d given up on trying to sleep and was watching the snow pile up on the slanted window, listening to music while the scene from earlier played over and over in his mind. If he had just leaned forwards and kissed him, would Jean have pushed him away, or… would he have leaned in and kissed back? And if he did kiss back, would his lips be as soft as his voice? Then what…?

Armin let himself indulge in his imagination, bringing his hand up to his cheek again just like Jean had. He almost wanted to climb out onto the roof again and sit for a while, but it would have been too dangerous and slippery without Jean there to catch him if he fell. The snow soon covered the whole window and the room was totally dark as it obscured the light from the lamppost outside. 

Eventually, Armin fell asleep that way, with Jean’s jacket around his shoulders and a smile on his face. 


	11. Chapter 11

Jean was interrupted from one of the best dreams he’d ever had by the pain of claws digging into his leg. He yelped as he came back to reality, jumping up from the sofa with a shout. At first, he had no idea what happened, but then he saw Stevie on his lap and realised the cat had been  _ trying _ to wake him up. 

“Stevie,” he groaned, but the cat just meowed and pressed his head against Jean’s leg like he wanted something. “You must be hungry, huh.”

Jean gave himself a few moments to lie there, clinging onto the details of his dream before they slipped away like sand through his fingers. He and Armin had been on the roof, just like the night before, but in the dream, the sun was setting as they lay side by side. The details were hazy, but Jean knew he’d kissed him - something he’d almost made the stupid mistake of doing before, too. In real life, Jean knew he would have regretted it, and he was glad that Stevie saved him from ruining what he had with Armin. When it came to the dream, though, Jean could still feel the ghost of Armin’s kiss tingling against his lips and he wished he’d gotten just five more minutes to enjoy it before being woken up. The dream kiss would probably pale in comparison to the real thing - not that Jean was ever going to find out, even if he was wanting to more and more. 

Pushing his hair out of his face, Jean sat up and yawned, forcing himself to squash down the memory of the night before with Armin. He couldn’t believe he’d held his face in his hand like that, but what was even more surprising was that Armin didn’t pull away - he leaned in. Was there any meaning behind that? Armin had never mentioned having a girlfriend, but even still… that didn’t mean he liked  _ men.  _ He could just not be into anyone at all, or shy to talk about it, or… maybe he didn’t feel comfortable enough to tell Jean. 

Stevie meowed again, and Jean got up properly. It was freezing, so he pulled on his socks before heading to the kitchen to try and find something for Stevie to eat. Armin wasn’t there, so Jean walked over to the kettle and touched it with the back of his hand which was completely cold. Armin always seemed like the sort to make tea first thing in the morning, so he assumed he was still sleeping. 

As it turned out, the snow did stick. It was seven-thirty in the morning, and the sun was just settling up into the sky. Jean looked out at the back garden all dusted white from snow as he cut up a banana into small circles. There wasn’t much; by the end of the day, it would all probably be gone, but it looked pretty to see the grass all shiny from frost and the leaves of evergreens bending under the weight of the snow. He wanted to hear the crunch of it under his feet - it was a satisfying sensation, like stepping on fallen leaves. 

Jean put the plate of sliced banana down on the floor, hitting it gently with a spoon to let Stevie know where to find it. The cat stalked over, tail raised high in the air, and took a few cautious sniffs before turning his nose up at the food and meowing again. 

“Seriously?” Jean asked, put off by how fussy this was. “You ate it yesterday, be grateful. You could be out there in the cold, you know.”

Stevie just turned away; Jean sighed. 

“Fine. You must want some real cat food, huh?” Jean took the untouched banana for himself, ate it hastily, then pulled on his shoes and grabbed his wallet before realising Armin still had his jacket. He eyed the hooks by the door where Armin’s coat was hung up neatly and figured it would probably fit him fine enough to wear to the shop and back considering how big it was on Armin. Wearing it beat being cold, and he surely wouldn’t mind. 

The rosy colour of Jean’s cheeks as he set off wasn’t entirely from the frigid weather. Armin’s coat smelled like him, and even though it was a little short on his arms, it kept Jean warm. He watched his footprints lead down the street behind him, the first person to disturb the snow from where it had settled. Each grey house he passed by had been coated white. Just like when the first green came blossoming from the branches in spring, change made everything prettier. 

Jean blew into his hands to keep them warm, and he was glad that Armin lived so close to the little corner shop at the end of the street. Not paying any attention to who might be working there, he walked inside. Instantly, he met eyes with Reiner. 

They both grimaced and tried to cover it with a smile; it was clear that neither of them had expected it, nor were they ready for it. But Jean had never been one to back down from a confrontation. He wanted answers. 

“So,” he said, walking over to the pet food section of the tiny store. “You knew.”

Reiner sighed and looked a little guilty. Jean could see him out of the corner of his eye.

“Good morning,” he said. He sounded exhausted. 

“You knew,” Jean repeated.

“Bertholdt’s been going through a lot, Jean. He didn’t want to piss you off.”

“He could have talked to me, though. He could have told me. He told  _ you.” _

“Because he guessed you weren’t going to take it well, and he was right,” Reiner said. 

“It came out of nowhere!” Jean huffed, frustrated. 

“It’s been a long time coming. You were in denial.”

“No, you guys just didn’t tell me. How long have you known?” 

“Huh?”

“About the shop closing. How long?”

“...A few weeks.”

_ “Weeks?! _ ”

“Yes, weeks!” Reiner snapped. “Look, Jean, you need to stop acting like you’re the victim here when Bertholdt’s really going through it. That’s not fair.”

“He seems glad about it to me,” Jean muttered. 

“Well, he’s not.”

Jean swallowed. He didn’t know what to think or who to trust - Reiner, or his own gut. He was holding the tins of cat food, but he made no move to take them to the counter. Instead, Jean looked around to find some other things to get, stalling for time. He hoped Armin liked tinned peaches.

“And what about you?” He asked. “You’re quitting for good too?”

“I want to support my friend.”

That stung. Jean frowned and tried to swallow back the hurt. “So I’m not-”

“Of course you’re my friend as well, Jean,” Reiner said. “We’re adults. I don’t want to have to pick a side like this. The fact of the matter is, I have to raise Gabi and work my ass off, especially now Bert’s moving in, and I don’t have as much time as I used to.”

“Right.”

“He told me you want to finish Mr Artlert’s composition.”

“I wanted to do it for Armin. And me. And you both, as well. I thought you’d like it. We need your help.”

“Jean…”

“But whatever. If you’re just quitting as well, I’ll make it a duet. It’s fine.” Walking over, Jean put his shopping by the till.

“I don’t want to  _ quit _ -”

“No, you can say it. Go ahead.”

“Jean.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“Nothing, because I just told you the  _ truth.  _ I don’t want to quit music. I want to keep teaching Gabi, and I want to play with you guys. But it’s hurting Bertholdt, and I don’t want to see him get hurt.”

“He just needs time.”

“I know he does. He might even come around. But for five minutes can you just respect what he wants instead of trying to tell him what to feel?”

Jean bit his lip as he watched Reiner scan his items. “Fine.”

“Thank you. You know I care about both of you.”

“I know…”

“And you care about us, too, don’t you?”

“I do not. Shut up.”

“Yeah, yeah, pay up. What’s the cat food for, anyway? And why are you here at this time in the morning?”

“Stayed at Armin’s last night. Too drunk and cold to bike home.”

“So you’re buying him cat food…?”

“Oh. No, that’s because we let Stevie in.”

“Stevie came in? That’s a first.”

“Yeah, I know. We had to give him a bath. Shit, that reminds me. Do you have cat shampoo here?”

“By the other toiletries, yeah.” 

Jean reached out to get some. He knew he was supposed to go out with Armin later to get cat things, but it made more sense to get it now while he still could. As Reiner scanned it and added it to his total, Jean frowned. 

“I feel pretty shit for leaving Bertholdt there on his own yesterday.”

“Don’t. It probably would have only stressed him out more. It’s not like it was busy, anyway.”

Jean handed over his cash, biting on his bottom lip as he thought about his friends. He was still hurt, and annoyed and frustrated. But he didn’t want to be a complete asshole, either. Maybe in the past, he would have doubled down and fought his side until he won, but now he was better than that. He wasn’t the shitty teenager he used to be.

“Thanks,” he said, as Reiner passed him his change. 

“You and Armin have been hanging out a lot, huh?” 

Jean felt his stomach tighten up. 

“I’ve been helping him with the house,” he said slowly. “Why?”

“Nothing!” Reiner said, holding his hands up, proclaiming his innocence. “You’re not doing anything shifty, are you?”

An image of the night before flashed through Jean’s mind and the dream he had of kissing Armin followed after, making him even more tense and nervous. Was it obvious? Had Reiner seen right through him? 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re not taking anything?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, like records, or whatever.”

It was ridiculous that Jean was relieved he was being accused of stealing, but he truly was when the alternative was so much more embarrassing. 

“Of course I’m not!” He said. “Armin actually keeps giving me stuff that I’m telling him to keep. He’s… way too nice.”

“Maybe you should take a page out of his book.”

“Shut up,” Jean laughed. “I’m trying.”

“I know,” Reiner said, and he sounded sincere. “Just, when it comes to Bert… give him time.”

“Okay. I… I’m… I’m sorry, alright?”

“I know,” Reiner said. “By the way, the shop closes next Friday. You should probably get what you want before then.”

“That’s so soon…” Jean muttered. He swallowed the lump in his throat, upset, perhaps irrationally, that the place he loved so much was closing without him having any control over it at all. 

“Just don’t get mad at Bertholdt for it. It’s not like he had any say in it either.”

“Heard you two are moving in together. Is he crashing on your sofa until he finds a place?”

“Well, sort of-”

Before Reiner could explain, the door to the shop opened again, and an elderly man came in, immediately glaring at them both. Jean and Reiner rolled their eyes at each other and smiled; it was a great relief to Jean to know that he wasn’t entirely hated by both of his friends, even if he was still hurt that they drifted away. 

“I should get back,” Jean said, a little more awkward than he normally was. 

“Yeah.”

“Alright, well, I’ll see you.”

“See you, Jean.”

* * *

The front door opened before Jean had time to put the key in the lock. It swung back to reveal Armin standing there, looking relieved and confused. Jean figured he must have been looking out of the window. He went to explain, but then he saw Armin’s flushed cheeks and the way he looked up nervously and suddenly was only able to think about how much he really wanted to lean in and kiss him as he had in his dream. 

“I went to the shop,” he blurted out, his stare still transfixed on Armin’s mouth. He forced himself to look away. “And I, er, I borrowed your coat… I didn’t want to wake you up.”

Jean looked at Armin properly, then, and realised that the coat he lent the night before was still draped over his friend’s shoulders. Armin’s hair was wet and tied back; he must have just gotten out of the shower. Even still, he looked exhausted, which Jean figured must be due in part to how drunk he was last night. Jean found it cute then, but now he felt guilty. What if that was why Armin didn’t pull away - not because he’d  _ wanted _ to kiss him, but because he didn’t have any idea what was going on?

“I thought you just went home!” Armin exclaimed, ushering him inside. Jean could smell toast and Armin’s girly shampoo. He had such pretty, soft-looking hair… was that why? 

“Sorry,” Jean muttered, snapping himself out of his daze. 

“No, don’t be,” Armin fussed, taking the bag of shopping. “I should be thanking - oh! You got cat food, you’re the best! I think Stevie was trying to find me earlier. His meowing woke me up.”

“Better than being woken by a claw to the leg,” Jean snorted. “He’s hungry.”

“I’m so sorry.” Armin apologised like it was his fault. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Jean chuckled. “Did you see the snow?”

“It’s pretty,” Armin smiled. “It’s already started to melt out the back, though.”

“Told you snow never lasts long here.”

“I’m glad for it.” 

In the kitchen, Armin finished his marmalade and toast while Jean fed Stevie. As soon as the tin was open he was sneaking around their legs, trying to get some, even though he couldn’t see. He ate up quickly. Both of them were relieved when they saw him finish the bowl, and he was so frail and thin that Jean gave him seconds. It felt domestic as they shared the morning. It was _ nice - _ Jean couldn’t remember the last time he’d had breakfast with someone. 

“How’s your head?” Jean asked. “You were pretty drunk last night.”

“I wasn’t too bad, was I?”

“What? No, it was cu- it was fine. You were fine.”

“That’s a relief,” Armin murmured. “And my head feels normal, I’m just really tired.”

It was as if both of them were waiting for the other to mention what happened on the roof, but neither did. Jean couldn’t stop thinking about it though. It was on his mind as they ate and drank coffee together, as he went upstairs to take a shower, and as he told Armin about running into Reiner at the shop. 

“It closes next Friday?” Armin asked after Jean finished explaining. “That’s so soon…”

“I know,” Jean said. 

“You ought to go, Jean. You need to make up with Bertholdt.”

“I do,” Jean agreed. “It’s just…”

“Just what?”

“Reiner said I need to give him time.”

“Before what?”

“Before I ask him about music again.”

“I think you need to let him come to you,” Armin said. “But… I don’t know. I feel like I’m sticking my nose in…”

“No, it’s nice. You’re a hell of a lot smarter than me about this stuff.”

“You think?”

“I wouldn’t tell you about it otherwise,” Jean said. 

Armin smiled at him, and Jean realised he’d tell him anything if it meant they would get to talk more. He wasn’t sure when he’d started coming over for Armin instead of the things and the mystery inside his home, but his new friend was the best thing that had happened to him in a long time.

* * *

As the sun rose higher into the sky and the snow began to melt, Jean and Armin spent the morning together. They lost track of time during a piano lesson that lasted for hours, getting distracted by laughing and joking but by playing together, too. Jean noticed how much better Armin got in between each one of their lessons. It was as if he’d been practising non-stop; his technique and musicality only improved as Jean showed him new ways to play. He admired Armin’s dedication and consistency - Jean certainly hadn’t been that quick to learn, but he supposed it was in Armin’s blood. 

Stevie didn’t seem like he was planning on leaving any time soon; to Jean, it looked like he had finally staked his claim on the home he had been stalking out for years. He was a little jealous if he were honest, wishing he could do the same. If he sat down by the radiator and refused to move, how long would it take before Armin kicked him out? Maybe it would be worth it just to prolong going home to that dark and empty home he shared with his mother. It was much colder there; she never turned on the heating like Armin did. 

After he and Armin went shopping for a few things for Stevie, Jean reluctantly said his goodbyes and unlocked his bike from the lamppost outside the house. He wiped the wet snow off the seat and handlebars and thanked Armin for letting him stay over before setting off down the street and through the city, back home to his village. Armin had offered to drive him, but Jean refused. He needed the time and the cold and the burn of exercise to clear his head before he got home. He needed to get Armin out of his brain or he was going to go crazy and turn right back around to ask to stay. He liked staying over a little bit too much. 

Once Jean was off the boat and on the other side of the river the snow lay a little thicker, and he had to get off his bike at several points so he wouldn’t slip on the large patches of ice. He was wearing his own jacket again, and it smelled like wine and Armin. When Armin offered it back Jean had been reluctant to take it, just because the sight of it draped over Armin’s shoulders made the cold so, so worth it. But Armin had insisted and now Jean got to smell him in both the clothes he got back and the shampoo he used in Armin’s shower that morning. 

The weather was beautiful now. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, but water still dripped onto Jean from snow melting off tree branches. He didn’t mind. It was much better than the torrential rain he was used to this time of year. In the distance, he could see clouds hanging over the city - maybe it would snow again. As the forest disappeared behind him Jean rode down the coastal path and thought about the shop. Next Friday. He had until next Friday to go in there and get the last things he needed. Reeds were going to become a problem; he was going to have to buy out all the remaining stock and hope they lasted him long enough. 

The neighbours nodded to him as he went by; to stall for time, Jean chatted to them about the weather, commenting on the snow and how nice their garden looked with all the pretty winter flowers in bloom. Jean’s garden was all grey patio slabs his mum put in with the last of their money some years ago, just so she didn’t have to maintain the plants. Jean liked their old garden, but he didn’t have much of a say in the matter. When she made her mind up about something, it was hard to tell her no. 

Eventually, he had to bite the bullet and go in. Standing at the front door, Jean shrugged his backpack off his shoulders and took a few moments to breathe and listen to the ocean rolling in and out beneath him. He timed his breaths with the water in the way Mr Arlert had taught him to do when he was feeling angry. It was a technique Jean used many times when he had to hold back his frustration, and one he wished he’d thought to do it in the music shop two days before. 

When Jean stepped inside, the first thing he noticed was that it felt even colder inside than it did out in the snow - his mother never put the heating on because they didn’t have the money. It was dark inside, and completely silent. Jean had to be careful not to make any noise because he didn’t want to wake up his mother and face a confrontation about where he’d been. 

He made his way through the house silently; he knew how to get around in the dark, which floorboards to avoid. Despite his efforts, though, when Jean got to the top of the stairs, his mother was standing in the doorway to her bedroom. She was wearing a dressing gown and had several blankets wrapped around her. She looked exhausted; Jean could tell she hadn’t been sleeping. 

“Where have you been?” She asked. 

“I was at a friend’s house,” Jean said. It was frustrating that he had to explain where he was even at twenty-three years old, but most of all, he was just worried. He was worried because his mother looked so bad. Even in the low light, Jean could tell she was getting worse, and he didn’t know what to do. 

“Who?” She asked. “I called Bertholdt’s mother. She said you weren’t there. Were you with Reiner?”

“ _ Mum,” _ Jean said, mortified. “Why would you do that?”

“Because I’m your mother. Were you with Reiner?”

“No, I wasn’t,” Jean sighed. He was so embarrassed that Bertholdt probably knew his mum was calling after him, especially since they had fought. 

“Were you with a girl?” 

“What? No!” 

“Don’t lie to me, Jean.”

“I’m not  _ lying _ ,” Jean snapped, but he regretted it when he saw the hurt in her eyes. 

“Then where were you?”

“...I was with Mr Arlert’s grandson.”

For the first time in a long time, Jean saw an emotion pass over his mother’s face that wasn’t exhaustion or worry. She looked  _ annoyed. _

“Why are you still going over there, Jean? I thought I told you to stop that. You need to focus on your career.”

Jean couldn’t hear it, but he was imagining the sound of the ocean. 

“I can do both.”

“You need to stop working at that shop, Jean, you’re wasting your time.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t need to worry about that,” Jean muttered under his breath. 

“There are always jobs going on the fishing boats.”

“I don’t want-”

“We all have to do things we don’t want to do.”

Jean thought about the tide rolling in and out. He didn’t want to argue with his mother; he’d done enough of that as a teenager, and it wasn’t good for either of them. 

“I know,” he said, biting his tongue. 

“Do you think I want to go to work every day?”

“I don’t think you want to do  _ anything _ ,” Jean muttered bitterly, unfairly. 

“What was that?”

“Nothing, mum.”

“Good. I’m going back to bed now.”

“Okay.”

Jean watched as she retreated back into her room, shivering from the cold, and frustrated with both her and himself. He went quietly back to his room, the only one in the house that didn’t have the curtains drawn almost all the time, and opened the window, watching and listening to the waves as they rolled in underneath him. He hummed to himself, the same song he’d sung to Armin on the roof the night before, and wondered what on Earth he was going to do about his mother. 

Most of the time, it was a quiet problem. She kept to herself, and Jean stayed out as much as he could, away from the silent yet oppressive house he hated so much. It was big, right on the ocean with large windows that looked out over the water. Jean had lived in that house perched on the seafront for his whole life, raised happily by both his parents until he was eight, when his dad left and everything changed. 

They should have moved. They should have sold the house and downsized to find somewhere they could afford, but the way Jean understood it, his mother was still clinging onto the memories of the happier times in this house when her husband was still around. He left without a word; he and Jean’s mother were still married, but he was long gone, off living a better life without his family. Jean didn’t care much to know him. He barely remembered the man - he was nothing but a stranger, someone he had no connection with. All Jean knew was that he loved music. That and their hazel eyes were all they had in common. 

Jean wished he could have put a record on, but he couldn’t while his mother was trying to sleep. Instead, Jean took one of the books Armin had given him and lay down on his bed, trying to read, but soon his mind began to wander, and all he could think of was that night on the roof, and what might have happened if he leaned in and kissed Armin like he wanted to. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please let me know what you think and follow me on twitter @vidnyia !!!
> 
> (also i know jean’s mum is ooc but it’s for the story shhhh)


	12. Chapter 12

Armin got the job at the bookshop. When the call came through, he was surprised - for some unknown reason, he hadn’t expected at all to be successful. Maybe he’d thought that due to his lack of experience, but in truth, Armin had been so preoccupied that the job applications hadn’t even crossed his mind. It seemed like the owner, a shy red-headed woman, was desperate for a new employee, which is why she had been willing to hire him fresh out of college with no experience. 

Armin was fast to adapt and learn, and he quickly got used to his workdays in the quiet little shop, surrounded by books. It had a nice atmosphere, locally owned but popular, especially with the elderly people in the area. When making idle conversation with them, Armin always wondered if they knew his grandfather, though he never asked. He got an hour for lunch, and between customers, Petra told him he could read as much as he liked. Having the assurance of a stable (if small) income was a relief. Growing up poor gave Armin the instinct to save and be as careful with money as he possibly could; it was one of the only things he had inherited from his parents. 

Looking after Stevie had become more of a hassle than Armin had anticipated. A few trips to the vet had told him that though he had limited sight, the poor cat’s vision was declining rapidly and he was a little underweight. Otherwise, he was in good health - though the vet couldn’t quite understand why Armin was so adamant to keep him. He was an old stray, she explained, and it was likely he may decide to leave and never come back. Armin simply insisted that he wanted to give Stevie the choice. He was another connection to his grandfather. 

Stevie didn’t leave. Armin made sure to keep a window open for him when he went off to his first shift at work, just in case he wanted to find his way out, but when he returned, exhausted, Stevie was right there on the sofa waiting for him. It was strange to Armin to think that he’d been so scared of him the first time they met. He guessed the same could be said about Jean. 

They hadn’t seen each other as often as they usually did. When Armin found out he got the job, the only person he had to call was Jean. He sounded happy for him, but a little off. There was something flat in his voice, and it made Armin’s heart hurt for reasons he couldn’t understand. Although Armin wanted to, they didn’t make any plans to see each other.

The early week went by quickly; Armin got used to working at the bookstore. In the evenings, he kept expecting the door to open and for Jean to come strolling in unannounced, but he knew Jean was busy at the restaurant where he worked, taking extra shifts. It wasn’t rational, but Armin wished he could come over anyway. Playing the piano was a welcome distraction that busied his hands and his mind. 

On Thursday evening, Armin played until his fingers hurt and his back ached from sitting in the same position for so long. He loved seeing himself improve each day - the steady, reliable progress was fulfilling and gave Armin a content feeling. He was hopeful that Jean would notice the next time they saw each other, whenever that would be. Armin missed his company and his lessons; he always improved faster with Jean’s guidance. 

He was getting ready for an early night when the phone rang, startling Stevie who had been sleeping beside it. Armin bent down to stroke him gently as he picked up the phone, the cord reaching just long enough for him to be able to sit on the floor with his cat. 

“Hello?” He asked. 

“Armin.” When Jean said his name, Armin immediately felt something blooming in his chest, like relief and happiness and nerves all at once. It was Jean. He hadn’t heard his voice in days, but it felt like longer. 

“Jean,” he smiled, holding the phone to his ear with both hands. 

“Hey.”

“Hey.”  _ I missed you,  _ Armin wanted to say, but in fear of sounding needy or weird or too much, he held his tongue. 

“Long time no talk.”

“It hasn’t even been a week…” Armin mumbled.  _ It feels like forever. _

“Oh, I see how it is,” Jean laughed down the line. He sounded a little better than he did the last time they spoke, but there was still something a little different about him. 

“I’m sorry I’ve been so busy.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ve been busy too. How’s the job going?”

“It’s going well,” Armin said. He smiled as Stevie crawled into his lap, demanding to be petted. “It’s actually quite relaxing.”

“Maybe I should work there, too,” Jean sighed. He sounded exhausted. 

“Is everything okay?” 

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Just… got a lot going on. And I, er, I need to buy reeds.”

“You still haven’t been to the shop?”

“No. No, I haven’t.”

“Jean… it closes tomorrow.”

“I know, I know. I just…”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Armin offered. He felt a little nervous to ask, but it was an excuse to see Jean. 

“Aren’t you working?”

“We could go on my lunch break.”

“When’s that?”

“Twelve-thirty to one-thirty.”

Armin heard Jean hum thoughtfully. “Okay. I’ll see you then. It’s Ral’s bookshop, right?” 

“Yes.”

“I’ve got the day off, so…”

“You’re welcome to use the cellar to practise if you want to while I’m at work. I’m sure Stevie would enjoy the company.”

“Really?” Jean asked, and it was the happiest Armin had heard him sound since they’d last seen each other. 

“Yeah, of course. I trust you, so…”

“You’re the best, you know that?”

“No!” Armin laughed. “I’m not.”

“You are. You’re a serious lifesaver, Armin.”

“It’s nothing.”

“I’m not nice to just anyone, you know,” Jean said. “Take the damn compliment.”

“... Thanks.”

Jean laughed and it made Armin feel tingly on the inside. He couldn’t help smiling too. 

“So, tomorrow, then?” Jean asked. 

“Yeah, tomorrow. At twelve-thirty.” 

“Cool.”

They were both silent, but it was like neither of them wanted to hang up. 

“Have… you been doing okay?” Armin asked tentatively. 

“Huh? Oh, yeah,” Jean said. “I’m fine. Just busy. It sucks that we work at different times.”

“It does… but, you know you’re welcome whenever.”

There was a brief silence. 

“I can hear Stevie purring,” Jean said. It was as if he hadn’t heard the last thing Armin said at all. 

“He’s on my lap,” Armin said. “He’s surprisingly cuddly.”

“He was that way with your grandfather, as well,” Jean chuckled. “He can probably sense that you’re related.”

“Do you think so?”

“I don’t know, I have no idea how cats work.”

“Oh.”

“I mean, he’s so blind he probably can’t tell the difference.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Armin laughed. “I’ll have to read about it.”

Jean sounded like he was about to reply when he was interrupted by someone, a female voice Armin assumed was his mother. Though he couldn’t make out what she was saying, Armin could hear Jean’s agitated responses. 

“No, I already told you... It’s not a girl! No... no, it’s not him either... I’m seeing Bertholdt tomorrow.” The female voice argued back, and Jean sighed. “I’m twenty-three, mum! Fine!”

“Is everything okay?” Armin whispered. There was a long pause where Armin could just hear Jean breathing in and out slowly. 

“Yeah,” he said eventually. “Sorry about that.”

“No, it’s fine. Please don’t apologise.”

“I’ll explain tomorrow if we have time.”

“Okay.”

Another pause. Armin didn’t want to go; he liked Jean’s voice too much. 

“What are you doing right now?” Jean asked. 

“I’m just sat on the floor with Stevie. I was about to go to bed.”

“This early? You baby.”

“I have work in the morning.”

“Baby,” Jean repeated, laughing. 

“Shut up,” Armin said, though he was laughing too. “I’m not a baby. I just like to sleep early.”

“Like a baby.”

“Oh my god, Jean, I’ll hang up right now.”

“No you won’t.”

“I will!”

“Go ahead, then,” Jean taunted, and Armin hesitated. 

“... Fine. You win.”

“Aww, you want to talk to me that badly?”

“You could hang up too, you know.”

“I do know, I’m just choosing not to.”

“So that’s the same - you want to talk to me!”

“Duh,” Jean laughed, then spoke like it was nothing to admit it. “Why do you think I called? I like talking to you. I… kinda missed you, you know?”

“I missed you too,” Armin blurted out, embarrassed as soon as the words left his mouth, cheeks bright red. He tensed up so quickly that Stevie complained and ran out of his lap. 

“Good,” Jean said, and his voice sounded quieter, softer. “So… I can see you tomorrow?”

“I’ll come with you to talk to Bertholdt.”

“At twelve-thirty.”

“Yes,” Armin agreed for the third time. 

“Okay. I’ll see you then.”

“See you then, Jean.”

Armin listened to Jean’s breathing as they both sat there, not wanting to say goodbye. There was a tense feeling in his chest, words bubbling up that he wanted to say but couldn’t. He had so many questions. 

“One of us actually has to hang up, you know.”

“I know,” Armin said. He felt sad; he had kind of wanted Jean to just stay there on the other end of the line. “I’ll do it.”

“You sound like a girl in a film,” Jean chuckled. 

“What does that make you, then?”

Jean suddenly sounded like he was choking on thin air, coughing and spluttering down the phone - Armin panicked, standing up far too quickly and the corners of his vision turning black. 

“I’m fine!” He choked out, making Armin worry just a tiny bit less. 

“Are you okay?” Armin asked. “What happened?”

“Swallowed some air. Don’t worry about it.” His voice sounded strained.

“Are you sure?” 

“Yep. I’m great. Anyway - I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you -” Armin started, but the line was dead before he even had a chance to finish his reply.

* * *

Friday was Jean’s first day off in a week and a half. January was on its way out - the chill was ever-present in the air, the kind that got into your bones and made it impossible to get warm. When it rained, the freezing cold water felt as if it were soaking through the skin, but still, the snow was nothing more than brown sludge in the gutter. Something about being so close to the sea made it hard for the snow to stick for long. Jean wasn’t sure exactly why, but he bet Armin did. 

As he sat on the ferry, resting on his bike, Jean made a mental note to ask Armin about it. His cheeks, just like always, felt a little warmer when he thought about him. There wasn’t just something about Armin - it was  _ everything.  _ Armin gave him that feeling in his chest, the same one he chased with his music, the same one he craved so desperately before, and now he had an almost endless supply. He stared up at the bright clouds the midday sun was hiding behind, and bit his lip. He was nervous to see Armin again. Anxiety wasn’t a feeling Jean had wrestled with since he was a teenager insecure about his musical ability. He supposed that he would have to avoid spending such a long time away from Armin again just to avoid it. That was definitely the reason. 

It was twelve twenty-five when Jean locked up his bike and made his way into Ral’s bookshop with his saxophone case sitting heavy on his shoulders. It was cluttered but cozy, obviously not a chain but a local business. The bookshelves stretched all the way up the walls, reminding Jean of Armin’s house in a way that made him feel at home. A pretty red-haired woman sat at the counter, but Jean’s eyes sought out Armin immediately. He was at the back of the room stacking books onto the top shelves, focusing hard, balancing on a wobbly-looking stepladder.  _ Cute.  _

“Looks like you need someone tall to help you,” Jean commented, and his voice was so loud in the quiet ambience of the store that it nearly blasted Armin off his stepladder. 

“Jean!” He exclaimed. “You scared me!”

“You were lost in thought,” Jean laughed. 

“Is it time we met already? I’m not late, am I? I lost track of time…”

“No, you’re good,” Jean said. “Don’t worry so much.”

“Are you taking your lunch now, Armin?” The woman in the front asked. She seemed friendly; Jean liked her. 

“If that’s okay with you, Petra,” Armin replied, getting down from the stepladder, then carefully folding it up. 

“Of course it is,” she said. “I’ll see you in an hour, okay?”

Armin nodded at her. 

“Let me just get my coat,” he said to Jean, smiling up at him like he was glad he was there. Feeling welcomed was something Jean hadn’t realised he needed so much, and there was real relief in his expression as he smiled back.

Once they were both outside, Jean felt relieved. He had missed Armin more than he realised - being by his side again made Jean remember how much better he felt when they were together. The last week had been a rush of extra shifts and calling around to find another job; he was trying his best to avoid having to go out on the fishing boats. It would mess with his schedule too much to work there, not to mention his own pettiness that made him want to do the opposite of what his mother told him. 

They walked quietly for a little while. The music shop was about ten minutes away, down at the bottom of the hill the city centre was perched on. Jean pushed his bike alongside him, while Armin ate an apple he’d pulled out of his coat pocket. The snow was all but gone, more mud than anything, but it was so cold out that it felt like it could start snowing down again at any moment. 

“How are you feeling about this?” Armin asked. 

“Fine,” he lied. Armin looked over and raised his eyebrows at him. 

“Are you sure?” He asked. 

“Nope. But I’m doing it anyway, right?”

“That’s a pretty good attitude to have.”

“Yeah, well, it’s good to have you here,” Jean admitted, looking over at Armin as he ate his apple. 

“I was thinking of picking some things up myself,” Armin said. “Just in case, you know?” 

“Like what?”

“Well… staff paper.”

Jean raised an eyebrow. Staff paper was used to compose music, as it came with the staff lines already printed onto it, ready for the notes to be written over the top. 

“Are you thinking about composing?”

“Um… I wanted to try?” Armin said. He looked embarrassed about it, but Jean didn’t understand why. “Mainly, it’s just so I can practise my music theory…”

“You nerd,” Jean smiled. “I think that’s a great idea.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It’ll be good for when we start writing the rest of your grandfather’s composition together.”

“When… did you want to start doing that?”

That question took Jean off guard. He bit his lip and scratched the back of his neck, thinking. In truth, he had barely thought about finishing the composition since his confrontation with Bertholdt. That argument soured his memories and spoiled his ambition, but Jean had always been far too stubborn to give up on things he’d set his mind to. Sometimes, he had to be adaptable to achieve his goals. 

“We might have to arrange it for just the two of us,” he said slowly. “If you want to hear it, that is. I don’t know if we’ll be able to get Reiner and Bertholdt to join in, and I don’t want to rely on them when they might not come back to music.”

Armin nodded. “I’m okay with that.”

“Then we can start whenever you like.”

“Really? Can we do it today?”

“Today?” Jean asked, feeling his heart squeeze just a little bit at Armin’s forwardness. “Sure. But… don’t you have to go back to work?”

“I thought you were going to practise at my place,” Armin said. He poked Jean’s sax case and smiled. “I get off at four. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”

“You’re the best, do you know that?”

“Not this again,” Armin laughed. 

“Yes, this again. Accept it.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Why are you so  _ stubborn? _ ” Jean rolled his eyes, bumping into him. Armin just laughed, rolling his eyes right back, and Jean had to look away to stop himself from grabbing his hand. He felt like he was a hair away from losing all self-control when Armin looked at him like that - he was so warm when he was smiling, and it lit a fire in Jean’s stomach. 

That feeling turned sour when they reached the music shop. Jean had been deliberately avoiding the place, but seeing the ‘CLOSING DOWN SALE’ signs in the window made his gut clench. Some part of him hoped that it wouldn’t really happen, but the grim reality of it sank in when he realised this truly was the last time he’d ever get to go into the music shop. 

“You can do it,” Armin encouraged. 

“I know,” Jean grumbled. “I just don’t  _ want _ to.”

“Yes you do. You need your reeds, right?” 

“You’re right… but that’s it.”

“Okay,” Armin said. They both knew Jean wasn’t telling the truth, choosing to pretend just for the ease of it. Jean locked up his bike for the last time around this lamppost. Maybe it was a ridiculous thing to be sentimental about, but he couldn’t help it. For a moment, he didn’t get up. He stayed there kneeling on the cold concrete, holding the bike lock, and didn’t move until he felt the warmth of Armin’s hand on his back. 

“This is frustrating,” Jean said, his voice wavering slightly. He refused to let himself cry, but he was feeling a little wobbly until he clenched his jaw and pushed his feelings down. 

“I know,” Armin said. He didn’t pull away. Jean wondered if Armin understood how much that meant. “But you can do it, Jean.”

“Yeah.” Jean stood up and cleared his throat, frustrated with himself for getting upset, especially in front of Armin. “Yeah, I can do it.”

They smiled at each other. Armin threw his apple core in the bin, quickly shoving his hands back into his pockets afterwards. Jean remembered how nervous Armin had been the last time they had come here together - now, Jean was the one leaning on Armin, and it was strange. 

Jean didn’t give himself any more time to overthink. With Armin following behind, Jean pushed open the door. He heard the familiar jingle of the bell which made his stomach clench, but Jean ignored the sensation. He would have expected to see the shop busier than normal or at least with dwindled stock, but there was only one customer inside. She was a tall, pretty woman with braids and a long grey coat, standing at the counter with a bored expression and a packet of guitar strings in her hand. 

There was nobody on the other side of the till. 

“Hey,” she said to the pair. “Do you know what’s going on with this place? There’s nobody here.”

“I can check in the back,” Jean said. His confusion was overriding his anxiety. It wasn’t like Bertholdt to leave the shop for so long, and even if it was the last day Jean couldn’t think of a good reason why he would be so reckless. Anyone could have walked in to steal whatever they wanted.

“Do you work here?”

“Uh, yeah. I’m not on shift right now, though.”

“Can’t you just…?”

“I’ll check in the back,” Jean said again. He didn’t want to go ahead and take over, especially when he was curious about where Bertholdt was. “Armin, do you mind waiting there with my sax case?”

“Not at all,” Armin said. The girl leaned on the counter. 

Jean rubbed his shoulder once the weight was gone and gave Armin a smile before slipping behind the counter and opening the back room. He was sad to see it dark and mostly empty, boxes of stock all gone and presumably taken away. Jean didn’t see Bertholdt right away, but he heard him. 

“Reiner…”

Jean covered his mouth with his hands when he heard Bertholdt say his friend’s name in such a way, and stumbled back. It was so eerily quiet. The music playing from the shop faded away when Jean’s ears picked up on the sound of two people kissing. He didn’t know if he should walk away - Jean felt like he was intruding on something very, very wrong, but he couldn’t stop himself from moving. Jean made his way further into the room and saw them around the corner, illuminated by the pale light streaming in from the cracked-open door. Neither of them seemed to notice the light or Jean as he stared for a moment in shock. Reiner was pushing Bertholdt up against the wall, hand under his shirt, kissing his neck, and Bertholdt was pushing towards his touch like it wasn’t enough, eyes squeezed shut, his nails digging into Reiner’s back. 

He couldn’t believe his eyes. Surely this wasn’t  _ real,  _ right? He was imagining it, exhausted from work. Any second now Jean would come to his senses just to see them standing there, packing up remaining stock, having carelessly forgotten about the customers coming to buy what little they had left. Not  _ kissing. _

Jean blinked. Nothing changed. 

“What the...”

* * *

It was a little awkward for Armin to stand in silence, waiting for Jean to come back. He had no idea if he was supposed to be making small talk, but as soon as he was about to say something, a loud crash and a yell came from the storage room. He and the woman looked at each other with confusion before Jean came out, shutting the door quickly behind him and leaning against it. 

“The owner - just - just take the strings,” Jean panted. Armin wondered what the hell was going on. 

“Are you sure?” The woman asked. 

“Yeah, just - it’s fine,” Jean said. Armin shot him a look as she shrugged and made her way out. 

“What’s going on?” Armin asked. He feared the worst - that Bertholdt and Jean had really fought. Jean was bright red; he looked more embarrassed than anything. 

“I’ll explain later.” Jean shook his head and went to get his sax case from Armin. 

“Seriously, what’s-”

“Jean! I can explain!” Bertholdt burst out of the storage room, followed by Reiner, both of them looking similarly flushed and out of breath. It reminded Armin of the first time he’d come to the shop when the two large men had come out in such a similar way. It looked like Bertholdt had been about to say something else, but when he saw Armin standing there, he completely froze. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Jean said. Armin watched him like a hawk. Jean couldn’t bring his eyes from the ground. “I’m just - I’ll just go.”

“Wait,” Reiner interrupted. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”

“What was it, then?” Jean asked. All of them fell silent. The music kept playing. 

Nobody came into the shop. 

Armin couldn’t wrap his head around what was going on. This was the most awkward confrontation he had ever witnessed, and like Jean, he felt the urge to get out of the music shop that now felt stuffy and all too much. 

“Is everything okay…?” Armin asked quietly when it became clear nobody was going to speak. 

“I think you should both go,” Reiner said. Bertholdt made a sound of indignation, and Armin watched as he stared at Jean like he was pleading with him. Jean nodded like he was making a promise, and Armin couldn’t get his brain to work fast enough to keep up. 

“Okay,” Jean agreed. Armin didn’t expect that - he didn’t expect any of this. He expected Jean to kick up some kind of fuss, to make a scene and demand that they all talk and the shop stay open, but he nodded meekly.

“Jean…” Bertholdt said.

“Let’s go, Armin.” Jean ignored him. Something serious must have been going on, because Jean didn’t even stop to get his reeds before he marched out, and Armin was unable to do anything but follow behind him. Outside, the cold air blasted them both in the face, another layer of shock piling up and adding to the strangeness of the last ten minutes. Armin noticed how Jean’s hands were shaking as he undid his bike lock.

“What - what was that?” Armin asked. Jean just shook his head.

“I’ll explain later,” he mumbled. Armin couldn’t tell if he was telling the truth or not, and he so desperately wanted to insist that Jean explain - but at the same time, he didn’t want to make him more uncomfortable than he so clearly already was.

“Are you okay?” He asked instead.

“I’m fine.” Jean looked like he was deep in thought as he bit his lip and fumbled with his bike before taking off down the road. Armin practically had to jog to keep up with Jean’s long strides - he was walking fast as if trying to burn off an adrenaline rush.

“You don’t look fine to me!”

“Can we talk about this after you get home?”

“Sure, but… are you still going to practise at my place?”

“If that’s fine with you.”

“It is, but -”

“Armin, please.” Jean sharply turned the corner.

“Did something bad happen?”

“...No.”

Armin bit his tongue to stop himself from asking any more questions. He didn’t want Jean to be annoyed at him, but he was desperate to know. Jean’s jaw was clenched and he gripped the handles of his bike so hard that his knuckles turned white; seeing him like that made Armin worry.

“What are you going to do now?”

“Let’s just… get some lunch or something before you go back to work.”

“...Okay.”

They bought sandwiches and sat in the park, watching families feed the ducks. There were chunks of ice in the pond, but it wasn’t fully frozen over. Armin didn’t mention what happened in the shop, but he was thinking about it furiously, and it was obvious that Jean was too. There were several possibilities he could think of, but none of them truly worked and made perfect sense. What sort of confrontation could have happened so quietly and so quickly? 

Jean must have seen something he wasn’t supposed to see. As Armin thought about it more and more, watching the ducks circle around the water, he thought he had a pretty good idea what it was - he would have to wait until Jean explained to see if he was right; his burning curiosity mattered less to Armin than Jean’s comfort. 

It was still awkward when Jean walked Armin back to the bookshop ten minutes before his lunch break ended. Armin gave Jean his keys and told him he was welcome to practise until he got back; Jean thanked him, and for a moment, they just stood there outside in the cold. Both of them had things to say but no courage to speak the words. 

“I’ll see you later, then?” Jean asked. 

“I finish at four,” Armin told him again. 

“I’ll have a cup of tea ready for you… and we can work on the composition?”

“That sounds good,” Armin nodded. “And…”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Are you sure-”

“I’m fine, Armin,” Jean said, putting his hand on Armin’s shoulder. “I’ll see you after work.”


	13. Chapter 13

Armin’s slow, deliberate work organising books was the only thing that kept him from going crazy during the last three and a half hours of his shift. He was able to focus on the logic of it all, the shelving and stacking and the scanning of books as he rang up customers that came by. Every so often his mind would go back to what happened in the music shop - Jean was so out of it, and that paired with Bertholdt’s flushed demeanour and Reiner’s insistence that they leave meant that  _ something _ was definitely wrong. 

Armin thought he might know what that was. 

He didn’t want to make wild assumptions without evidence, but Armin knew his gut was rarely wrong, and he couldn’t come up with any other explanation. Still, he would keep his mouth shut until Jean explained to him what was going on. It wasn’t certain that he was right, after all. It was better to wait and see. 

When he left work at four, it was already almost completely dark outside. Armin could see his breath in front of him as he hurriedly walked home, wondering if Jean would have turned on the heating so it was warm when he got in. He passed people clutching their coats around themselves just as he was; Armin found himself wishing for a new pair of shoes. The ones he had on did little to protect his toes from the cold that seeped through. His long hair covered his ears, but he still felt like they would fall right off the sides of his head. Above, the night sky was cloudless, but city lights kept the stars from shining as brightly as they did over Jean’s village. 

It hurt to rap his cold knuckles against the door, but Armin had no choice after having given Jean his keys. He prayed that Jean would hear and that he hadn’t lost track of time. He wanted to hurry and warm up, but more urgently, he wanted to talk to Jean. Thankfully, Jean opened the door after a few seconds, and warm air blasted Armin in the face. 

“Thanks,” he shuddered, stepping into the heat of indoors, shedding his coat and scarf and grabbing his thickest cardigan. “It’s freezing out there!”

“It _ is _ winter,” Jean pointed out. “I’ll make you that cup of tea now.”

“Thanks.”

For some reason, Armin had expected Jean to spill everything once they were alone together, but as they walked to the kitchen, Armin noticed Jean was acting as if everything was normal. Should he ask? Or should he wait for Jean to be comfortable explaining? Was it really his business, anyway? Armin wished that he could be better in social situations just so he knew the appropriate things to do and say, but those were not the kind of things that could be learned through books and reading. 

“How was work?” Jean asked. 

“It was okay,” Armin shrugged, smiling as Stevie followed them into the kitchen. “How was practise?”

“I got loads done. It was great; thanks for letting me do that.”

“It’s okay. Are you… doing alright?”

Finally, Jean showed some kind of reaction to indicate he was still thinking about that awkward scene in the music shop; his hands were shaking as he poured the boiling water into their mugs, though he managed without spilling any. 

“I’m fine,” he said. “You?”

“Mm,” Armin replied. “So…”

“You want to know what happened, right?” 

“I just want to know if you’re okay,” Armin said. He was almost lying, or just omitting the truth - he did want to know if Jean was okay, but he was so curious about what happened at the same time. 

“I’m fine,” Jean said. “It’s… let’s go work on composing while we talk.”

They took their mugs of tea and went to the dining room so they could use the piano to help them compose. Some things had been set up already - his grandfather’s sheet music book sat on the music stand, open to the last page he had written on, and Jean had brought some staff paper of his own for them to write their ideas. Next to the grand piano, Jean’s saxophone rested in its stand, the perfectly polished brass shining. Armin felt tense, like all the muscles in his body were tightening up with anticipation. He was nervous - if his theory was correct, everything hinged on Jean’s reaction to it. 

Jean sat down on the piano stool and made space so Armin could sit comfortably beside him. Their thighs were touching, and it made Armin feel even more tense - he could smell Jean’s shampoo as he sat there. They were so near to each other, but Armin craved to close what little distance remained. He knew it was unlikely that he’d ever get to experience that, though, so he took in the feeling of Jean’s closeness and forced himself to be content with it. 

Before saying anything, Jean messed around on the piano, his fingers moving nimbly between the keys, making up some unknown melody just to occupy himself. Armin noticed that it was something Jean did often when he was trying to burn off nervous energy, and wondered if that was part of the reason why he was so musically talented. 

“So,” he murmured. 

“So,” Jean repeated.

“Are you okay?”

“Honestly? Yeah. I just feel weird.”

“Weird how?”

“I…” Jean paused. He took a sip of his still-too-hot tea and winced. “I don’t know.”

“What happened in there?”

“Fuck, Armin, I… I don’t know if I really should tell you.”

“What?” Armin asked. He looked at Jean with confusion, his eyes growing wide. Jean’s were fixed on the piano keys. “Why not?”

“I… don’t know if it’s my business to share.”

“You don’t  _ have  _ to say,” Armin said. His curiosity and desire to know if he was right was throbbing through his veins. “But… I won’t tell anyone, you know that. I don’t have anyone  _ to _ tell, anyway.”

“I know,” Jean sighed. “It’s just…”

“They were kissing, weren’t they?” Armin couldn’t help it; the words just came out. 

“How did you know?” Jean blurted out just as quickly. He put his hand over his mouth when he realised what he said like he might be able to push the words back in and unsay them. Armin felt the thrill of being right, but the satisfaction was short-lived - he realised then, that he now had to navigate Jean’s reaction and face the possibility that he wasn’t okay with it. 

“It was the only idea I could think of. For the confrontation to have been so fast, and so awkward… you had to have walked in on something you shouldn’t have. Not to mention how they looked when I met them for the first time…”

Armin couldn’t meet Jean’s eyes as he explained, but he could feel him staring. 

“You’re something else, you know that?” Jean asked. “But… yeah. They were kissing. Shit, this makes so much  _ sense. _ They must have been doing the same thing then as well...” 

Armin swallowed. He didn’t dare look at Jean. If he saw his face and he was disgusted, how could he continue with this friendship? Armin couldn’t deny to himself that he had feelings for Jean, even if he had been trying desperately to ignore them. Ever since drifting from his childhood friends, Armin had focused solely on his studies to avoid falling for anyone or being known. His sexuality was a part of himself he kept hidden - though it was becoming harder to ignore with Jean around. There was something about him that was so different - Jean was like nobody Armin had ever met before. 

He placed his hand on the piano, fingers in the shape of a chord, just for an excuse to look down and not at Jean. 

“So…” Armin said again. “Um… what are you going to do?”

“What do you mean?” Jean asked. 

“Like - are you going to say anything to them about it, or…?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Well, do you - do you have a problem with it?”

“I don’t see it as a bad thing. Who cares, right? Do  _ you  _ have a problem with it?” Jean’s voice was accusing, protective. 

“What? No!” Part of Armin wanted desperately to tell him he was gay right then and there, but he just couldn’t. The words were impossible to say.

“Good. Like I said, it’s not my business.”

“So you’re not… weirded out?”

“No? Honestly, I’m relieved. I thought they were being all secretive because they disliked me… if they fancy each other, I don’t really care. I just wasn’t sure if telling you would have been the right thing to do.”

Armin looked up in shock, and when his eyes met Jean’s, he felt a blush spread through his cheeks. He had never heard someone being so openly  _ fine _ about things like this. He thought about his grandfather’s photo albums and the photos of him and David, and the sneaking suspicion he had about the nature of their relationship. 

“I won’t say anything if I see either of them,” Armin murmured. 

“Thanks,” Jean said. “What’s your… what do you think about it?”

“About being gay?”

“Yeah.”

“Um, I… I don’t know,” Armin lied. For some reason, even though he knew Jean’s opinion on gay people, Armin still didn’t feel comfortable admitting it to him. He didn’t want Jean to realise how he felt. He had kept it a secret his entire life - never told his parents, never told his old friends, never told any of the guys he’d secretly liked…

“Don’t tell me you find it gross,” Jean frowned. He looked tense, but also… nervous?

“I don’t find it gross!” Armin said quickly, shaking his head. “It’s - it’s fine!”

“Good. Yeah. Okay. Because it’s not gross.”

“I know.”

“Good,” Jean repeated.

They didn’t look at each other. 

“It’s just… a different type of love,” Armin said quietly. “Right?”

“Exactly,” Jean murmured. He took a deep breath like he was trying to collect himself. “I got the shock of my life when I saw them there like that.”

“Oh yeah?” Armin smiled. He felt so much more at ease now he knew that if discovered, Jean wouldn’t hate him completely. “I can imagine the look on your face.”

“Oh, don’t,” Jean laughed. The tension was fading; there was the usual air of ease between them again. “I walked in there, and I couldn’t see them at first, right? But I heard it.”

“And that wasn’t enough to know?”

“I wanted to check! So I went in a bit further, and they were  _ really  _ making out.”

“You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”

Jean shuddered. “I don’t want to see my friends like that.”

“Who does?”

“Alright, yeah, fair enough. Still. It was the last thing I expected.”

“You had no idea?”

“Nope,” Jean said. “Maybe if I had your brain, I would have noticed, but we’re not all geniuses, you know.”

“I’m not a  _ genius!”  _ Armin blushed, embarrassed yet touched at the same time. It felt wonderful to be complimented by him. 

“Yeah, yeah, play all humble,” Jean teased. 

“I’m not-”

“Sure. But don’t argue with me. Let’s work on this for a while.”

“...Fine.”

* * *

Just like always, time flew when they were together. In the cramped dining room, sitting there on the same piano stool, Jean and Armin worked on the composition. Armin let Jean take the lead, observing and attempting to memorise everything he said and did. Mostly, he liked listening to Jean, watching the way he came at problems and how he bit his lip in deep thought while trying out ideas on the piano keys. He was fascinating. Starting off, Jean played the piano part slowly, unable to fully get it even at his skill level, while humming the melody. Armin melted inside whenever he heard Jean’s voice, but he tried to hold himself together at least enough for Jean to not notice. 

They decided to finish the composition with all four parts as it was originally intended. It would be more true to his grandfather’s vision, Armin thought, and Jean agreed. Afterwards, they would arrange it to fit just sax and piano, a duet for the both of them. Jean also noted that they could simplify the piano part for that arrangement so Armin would be able to play it with a few months of hard and steady practise. He was relieved - the part his grandfather had originally intended to play himself was years away from what he thought he could achieve, though Jean was quick to argue. 

“I have no idea how you’re improving so fast,” he said. It was fully dark out; hours had passed since Armin got home. In front of them were sheets of paper with ideas scribbled on - some were crumpled up and abandoned, others stacked neatly into a pile by Armin. 

“It’s not like I have anything else to do but practise,” Armin shrugged, brushing off the compliment and letting his hair fall over his face so Jean wouldn’t see him blush. 

“No, but still. You can tell you’re a part of the family… you’re just like your grandfather. He was always able to just play a melody after hearing it. It was incredible.”

“That’s how I taught myself back then. I would work out the notes in my head and play them over until I could use the piano again.”

“You’re insane,” Jean laughed. “It’s crazy how  _ similar _ you two are. Are you sure you never met him?”

“Not once,” Armin said. “I didn’t even know his name. Dad never talked about him.”

“Really? Why?” 

“I don’t know. I remember Mum telling me he tried to take her name when they got married, but she insisted on taking his. She liked the alliteration. That’s why I have an ‘A’ name too.” 

“You’ve got an interesting family history, I bet,” Jean said. Armin knew he was right; he just didn’t have the courage to keep learning about it. “My family is boring.”

“I’m sure it’s not.”

“Maybe not on my dad’s side, but I’ll never know about that,” Jean chuckled with no humour.

“Can’t you find out?”

“Nope. It’s not like he’s coming back any time soon, no matter what Mum thinks. Besides, she burned all of his stuff this one time. Regretted it afterwards, but by then the damage was done, I guess. She cried for weeks.”

“Oh.”

There was an uneasy silence, different from the awkward one before. 

“Sorry,” Jean said, getting up. “I’m oversharing, huh?”

“No, it’s fine!” Armin insisted, also getting to his feet. “Please, don’t worry about that! I like hearing about you.”

“Weirdo,” Jean snorted. Armin almost thought he was being serious until he saw the half-smirk on his face. He rolled his eyes. 

“I mean it,” he said earnestly. “I think you’re interesting.”

“Well, I  _ am,  _ but talking about my mum is way too depressing.”

“I think that’s fine… I’ve been depressed in front of you before.”

“I guess,” Jean shrugged. “Still, though.”

“No, tell me about her. I’m curious.”

“You would be, wouldn’t you?” 

“I can’t help it…”

“History nerds are surprisingly nosey.”

“I’m - you don’t  _ have _ to say, Jean!”

“You’re fine,” Jean laughed. “I’ll tell you about it some other time.”

“Okay,” Armin agreed, though his nosey side really  _ did  _ want to know more. 

“Shit, we let our tea go cold,” Jean said. He was changing the subject and Armin let him. 

“I’ll microwave them now,” he said, taking them both and leading Jean out of the cramped room and to the kitchen. “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

“I should probably head back… I have to make Mum dinner.”

“She can’t cook?”

“Something like that.”

Armin wanted to ask, but he didn’t. He’d made enough unsolicited guesses that day. 

“Well.. do you want a lift?”

“The weather’s nice enough for me to ride,” Jean shook his head. “It shouldn’t rain on me.”

“But it’s dark… are you sure?”

Jean nodded. “Positive.”

They drank their reheated cups of tea, chatting for a while longer before Jean packed up his stuff and got ready to go. Armin walked him to the door, wishing Jean would stay the night again, even if he knew it probably wouldn’t happen again unless it snowed. 

As Jean rode off down the street, Armin waved from the doorway and wished for snow the next time they saw each other.

* * *

When Jean was stressed, he woke up early and could never get back to sleep. He never tried for long - Jean always felt the need to get up and move around to burn off his nervous energy, too restless to stay in bed. The ocean calmed him down, and with it being just a minute away, Jean didn’t mind slipping out of the house at seven in the morning to go and sit on its shore. The early morning chill stole what remained of his tiredness. Jean stepped out of his grey house, shaking off the claustrophobic feeling it gave him, and breathed a free breath of January air. Mornings like these felt like relief.

Setting off for the beach, Jean walked by familiar buildings with his guitar slung over his shoulder, an old acoustic that stayed hidden in the back of his wardrobe most of the time. It was his father’s. Jean didn’t know why he left it behind, but it was the only thing he had left to remember him by. His mum didn’t know; in the winter she burnt all of her ex-husband’s things, Jean had tucked the guitar away where she wouldn’t find it. He didn’t know anything about music back then - his fingers weren’t even long enough to stretch over the fretboard - but that old guitar inspired him to  _ try, _ to work hard in Mr Arlert’s lessons, to start practising whenever he had a spare moment. As soon as he could, he started teaching himself during private moments. He didn’t tell a soul about the guitar; it was his secret. If his mother found it, it would surely end up broken beyond repair. 

Jean walked for a little while, humming to himself, listening to the gulls and watching his footprints in the sand behind him. He loved being the first out - it felt like the beach was all his. The sun hung above the water, the last of the pink sunrise fading to light blue. It would rain later, but for now, the weather was perfect. Jean climbed over the rocks with the familiar weight of the guitar on his shoulder. He was a little sore from everything he’d been doing recently, but the ache felt like progress, reassuring him that he wasn’t slacking. 

There was a little cove past the rocks that got cut off by the tide. Jean loved to play there when water separated him from everyone else. With his trousers rolled up to his knees and his shoes in his hand, Jean waded through the freezing ocean, ignoring the numbness of his toes. When he reached the tiny beach, sand stuck to the soles of his feet. It tickled and made him huff out a laugh he saw in front of him.

A perfectly flat and round stone caught his attention. Ever distracted, Jean couldn’t resist picking it up and attempting to skim it over the water. He held it just like Armin showed him, making sure the flat edge was parallel to the water, and sent it flying, letting out a loud cheer when he saw it make two jumps. He wished Armin was there to see it, though. Maybe he would have shown him up by skimming a stone twice the distance, or maybe he would have just smiled in the way that set Jean on fire. Either way, he wished Armin was there with him. It was the first time Jean had ever wanted to share this place with anyone. He wanted to share everything with Armin. 

Sitting down on the sand, Jean let himself relax for a few moments before settling his guitar into his lap and beginning to tune it. He didn’t get to play often, but he enjoyed it nonetheless. Being out here with the birds and the sea and his guitar was peaceful. Jean wasn’t even that good at the guitar - unlike Armin, he didn’t learn that well without someone to critique him. Solitude gave him the freedom to be as bad as he liked. Out here, he was playing for himself. 

Jean played some basic chords to warm up, humming a melody he made up as he went along, and let his thoughts wander. He had been so stressed recently, but he let those feelings go, his mind drifting instead to Armin. He thought about his smile - Jean had seen it much more recently. Armin had looked almost depressed back when they’d meet weeks ago, but now he laughed in a way that made his eyes light up. The soft blue of the ocean rolling out with the tide reminded Jean of Armin’s gaze, of how his eyes shone that night on the roof as they lay there looking at each other with snow falling onto their cheeks. He was so warm back then; when Jean looked at Armin he felt like daffodils and March sun no matter how cold it was.

_ A different kind of love.  _

That was how Armin put it. Jean couldn’t help but jump to conclusions just a little bit, thinking back to their other encounters in a new light. On the roof, maybe Armin _ had  _ wanted to kiss him. Jean knew he was an attractive guy, and Armin always did seem a little flustered around him… he wanted to tell him. His sexuality was a secret he’d been holding in from the moment he knew it, but it wanted so badly to be shared now. At the very least, Armin would accept him. At most, he might be the same way…

The tips of his fingers began to sting from being held down on metal strings, but Jean paid the pain no mind as the minutes ticked by. Reiner and Bertholdt… Jean was surprised at first, but the more he looked back on it, the more sense it made. The two of them had always been close. He guessed they would assume he’d be not okay with it, but in reality, Jean was relieved that his two friends were together. It lessened the sting of Reiner siding with Bertholdt and explained why they hadn’t told him about moving in together. No wonder they had been so stressed. Maybe, now, they could all finally clear the air. 

A few hours passed. Jean didn’t want to go, but his fingers hurt and he needed to hide his guitar away before his mother got out of bed - unless she was working, she normally didn’t rise until the afternoon, but Jean still wanted to be careful. He brushed the sand from himself and walked back to the main beach - by now, the tide had gone out enough that he didn’t have to wade through the water. He smiled and nodded to the dog-walkers and thought about what he might do after work that evening. Could he stop by Armin’s…? 

He was about to lose himself in thought again when the sight of a familiar car parked outside his house snapped Jean out of his daze. That was Bertholdt’s car - soon enough, Jean saw a tall figure leaving the garden looking flustered and nervous. 

“Bert?” He called, and sure enough, his friend turned around, startled. 

“J-Jean!” He exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“What?” Jean asked. “I live here.”

“Right, yes, but - it’s early, so I thought you wouldn’t…”

Bertholdt was standing awkwardly by his car when Jean reached him. He seemed to be desperately avoiding eye contact. 

“What’s going on?” Jean asked, straightforward and direct. 

“I just… wanted to drop something off. It’s fine. I’ll go.” 

“No, wait.” 

“Jean… if this is about yesterday, just… please can we pretend that never happened?”

“No,” Jean said, “because it did happen. But that’s-”

“Oh, no… you told Armin, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t, but he guessed.” 

Bertholdt covered his face with his hands, bright red behind them. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry? What are you sorry for? And what are you even doing here?”

“I’m sorry you had to see that! Just - don’t tell anyone else? I’ll do anything.”

“I’m not going to tell anyone else. I don’t  _ care _ , Bert. Neither does Armin-”

“I’ll do anything, I swear! I’ll play music again, I’ll do anything just please don’t tell anyone-”

“Jesus, Bert, will you listen to me?” Jean interrupted. “Can I tell you something?”

“What…?”

“I’m gay.”

Jean was surprised by how easy it was to admit it; the words came out like he’d said them a thousand times before. After just thinking about it, it was such a  _ relief.  _

“What - wait, what?”

“Yeah. So, I really mean it when I say I don’t care about you and Reiner. Honestly, I’m kind of relieved it wasn’t something  _ bad _ …”

Bertholdt just stared at him in silence for a few drawn-out moments. 

“You’re gay,” he said, like he was making sure. 

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,  _ oh.  _ So can you calm down now?” Jean asked, scratching the back of his neck when he thought about what Bertholdt offered. “So you don’t need to, you know… come and play with me again if you don’t want to. I’m not about to force you. That would be shitty of me.”

“Jean…”

“No, I know you’re about to apologise,” Jean said before Bertholdt had a chance to say any more. “And you really don’t have to. I spoke to Reiner, and I get it. You need time. So… seriously, just take as long as you need.”

Bertholdt bit his bottom lip in a way that made Jean think he was holding back tears. 

“What about Mr Arlert’s composition?”

“Armin and I are working on it as a duet now,” Jean explained. “It would be nice if you guys joined, but it’s not… necessary.”

“Armin…” Bertholdt said, his eyes wide. “Are you and him…?”

“What? No!” Jean blushed, grabbing the front of his guitar strap. “No, I -”

“But you like him.” Bertholdt sounded relieved; it was a mutual feeling. 

“Yeah…”

It felt good to admit that, too. 

“I did wonder.”

“Fuck off, no you didn’t,” Jean scowled, his cheeks still flushed. 

“Whatever you say.” 

Another silence passed, but it wasn’t awkward or painful this time. Jean and Bertholdt looked at each other and smiled. 

“I owe you an apology,” Jean murmured. “I was an asshole. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay… I owe you one too. I should have told you about the shop closing myself, but I was being a coward. I’m sorry.”

“Shall we call it even?”

“That sounds good to me,” Bertholdt smiled. After they shook hands, Bertholdt pointed at Jean’s guitar. “You’re learning a new instrument.”

“Something like that,” Jean said. “I’m not great.”

“Well, you know what Mr Arlert used to say. Practise makes perfect…”

Jean chuckled; it wasn’t funny, but he was so relieved to have his friend back that he couldn’t help it. 

“You’d better keep practising too, then,” he teased, poking him in the shoulder. “How did it go, yesterday?”

“With the shop? It was weird. But… it needed to happen.”

“You deserve the fresh start,” Jean said. His selfish desire wasn’t as important to him anymore. Sometimes, it just took him a little longer to see through his anger. He would always find another place to buy reeds for his saxophone - that was less important than Bertholdt’s feelings. 

“Thanks.” Bertholdt pointed at his car. Inside was a stack of papers on the passenger seat that Jean assumed were CVs. “Looking for a new job today.”

“Good luck,” Jean smiled. “You’ll find one in no time. I’ll let you get to it.”

“Okay,” Bertholdt nodded. “I’ll see you soon, Jean.”

“See you soon.”

As Bertholdt drove away, Jean realised he’d forgotten to find out why he had come out to the village. Deciding to call him later, Jean headed back to his house, ready to drop off his guitar and maybe eat before he fled his home once again to go to work. He stopped short, getting his answer when he saw a plastic bag on the doorstep.

Jean quickly went to inspect it, and smiled when he saw that sat inside were boxes and boxes of reeds. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just as a note, reeds are the little wooden things you use to be able to make noise with a saxophone. you need to replace them every so often because they wear out and break. i thought i ought to explain that... anyway! i hope you liked the chapter! remember you can find me on twitter @vidnyia, i post snippets and updates there!


	14. Chapter 14

The next few weeks slipped away; each day blurred into the next. Now that he was working, Armin felt as if he was truly settling into the rhythm of his new life. Most days, he would wake up early and start his morning with piano practise. Stevie would often come and curl up on his lap as if he liked to listen. After a shower and breakfast, he would head off to work, walking the mile or so through rain or hail, and on rare mornings, sunshine. Work was enjoyable when he didn’t have to deal with rude customers - Armin would steal all the little moments he could to read and work on memorising the composition he and Jean were writing together. When Jean wasn’t working, he would come over in the evenings so they could continue making progress composing. Armin sat at the piano, Jean off to the side with his sax, working slowly through their rewritten melody. That was always Armin’s favourite part of the day. 

January turned to February, and the weather became crueller. Cold crept through Armin’s loft bedroom and froze him in the night. Often, he would wake up shivering no matter how many blankets he piled on top of himself. Many times he felt tempted to go and sleep in his grandfather’s room. The bed was large and there was a radiator to warm him all night, but Armin couldn’t shake the feeling that it was wrong. Despite settling to every other aspect of his life, Armin still felt like an imposter in his own home. It had been two months and he was merely a guest.

When Armin went to the store at the end of the street, Reiner acted as though the day at the music shop had never happened. They both knew that Armin knew, but pretended for their own sakes that he didn’t. It was less awkward that way. Reiner was a good actor; Armin sometimes wondered if he really had forgotten all that happened. 

Jean had told him about the conversation he had with Bertholdt, and the gift of reeds he left as a peace-offering. He was glad and proud that Jean had the strength to apologise. When it came to his old friendships, Armin had passively let them drift away until he was alone. He hoped that would never happen with Jean. Something in his heart told him what they had was special.

* * *

Armin spent the first Saturday of February sat on the sofa, listening to music while he waited for the early morning to tick by. He was wearing a thick jumper and woolly socks, and Stevie was curled up in his arms, purring as Armin rhythmically stroked his fur in a way that calmed them both down. He watched his cup of tea go cold on the coffee table, just out of reach. Armin would microwave it later - it wasn’t worth disturbing Stevie over. At ten o’clock, he was going to make the drive to Jean’s village, catching an early ferry so they had longer to spend together. 

The night before, Jean had called. He sounded frazzled and exhausted, briefly explaining an argument with his mother he promised to elaborate on some other time. Rather than cancelling their plans for the next day, Jean had invited Armin over to spend the day with him, promising to show him around the village. He mentioned a surprise, too, something Armin was apprehensive yet curious about. Really, Armin thought it was a miracle that the skies were clear the same day they were both off from work. 

Just as Armin was about to make a cautious stretch for his cup of tea, Stevie shifted and crawled up his jumper to press his face into the crook of Armin’s neck. Letting out a soft gasp, Armin slowly wrapped his arms around his cat, feeling overjoyed that the old stray was so affectionate. He gently stroked his fluffy coat and hummed to the music playing in the background. It was strange to think he’d been so afraid of Stevie before. He was just looking for a home, Armin figured, and he was more than happy to give him one. Maybe it was silly, but Armin felt like he had someone to call family again. 

They stayed there like that for a little while longer before Stevie eventually slinked off to stare out of the window. Armin tried in vain to get all the cat hair off himself before drinking his lukewarm tea in one go. He didn’t have the time to wait around - he wanted to go and see Jean. After saying goodbye to Stevie, Armin headed out. The drive was even more beautiful than usual. The sea shone bright and blue as Armin drove along the cliffs, and he couldn’t help but smile the whole way. 

Armin parked in the same spot he did the night he came to watch the evening of music at the bar. Just like that night, Jean was waiting, leaning against a lamp-post with a grin on his face. His hair was pushed back out of his face as if he styled it, and he was wearing a denim jacket instead of a winter coat; Armin wondered how he didn’t freeze to death, but at the same time, he had to admit to himself that Jean looked good. 

“Hey,” he said, breathless when he got out of the car and the cold air hit him. 

“Hey,” Jean replied. “You look warm.”

Armin tugged sheepishly at his scarf and smiled. “You look cold.”

“I’m used to it,” Jean said. 

“How?” 

“Morning bike rides. You doing okay?” 

“Yeah,” Armin smiled. He wanted to tell Jean how much he’d missed him, but he kept quiet. As they fell into step together, Armin looked up at him and felt his stomach tighten up. “Stevie was being really cuddly this morning. It put me in a good mood... how are you?”

“Relieved that my mum’s gone for a while, I’ll tell you that,” Jean sighed. “Let’s get in and I’ll explain.”

“Okay.”

“It’s not far from here.”

“I remember,” Armin smiled. “Your house is amazing. The way it hangs over the water like that…”

“Yeah, well, wait until you get inside,” Jean snorted. “It’s much less impressive there, I’ll tell you that.”

“I’m sure it’s not,” Armin said. 

“You’ll see,” Jean snorted. “Oh, by the way - did you bring the composition stuff?”

“Oh - no, I didn’t, I’m sorry! It completely slipped my mind…”

“No, no, I’m glad. I thought we deserve a proper day off. Just to, you know, hang out and spend some time together.”

The feeling in Armin’s chest tightened considerably; Jean wanted to spend time with  _ him,  _ separately from their project together. He felt his cheeks warming up. 

“Oh, then I’m glad, too,” he murmured. 

“Good.”

They walked for a minute or so more before reaching Jean’s house. Despite what Jean said, Armin was taken aback by how beautiful it was from the outside. It hung partially over the ocean, ivy growing untamed up the side of the wall. Though the garden wasn’t anything compared to the others in the village, Armin admired the view nonetheless. 

“Honestly, I never expected to invite you here, but it’s not so bad when my mum’s not around,” Jean murmured, letting Armin through the gate and leading him to the front door. He fumbled with his keys for a moment before letting him in. The heavy door echoed through the house as it shut behind them, and suddenly, Armin felt the atmosphere shift. 

The house had high ceilings. From the corners, spotting the off-white with black, damp crawled inwards. Their footsteps seemed too loud as they walked down the hallway. Jean was quiet, and from behind Armin could see that his shoulders were tense, hunched up. The walls were bare, and there was a layer of dust on everything that gave it all a grey-ish tinge. It was stiflingly empty. That was the feeling Armin got - as if everything that gave the house character had been taken away and never replaced, leaving only the bare essentials and uncomfortable, stuffy air.

The kitchen was the same way. Jean sighed when they got inside. Draped entirely across one wall were black-out curtains that completely blocked all light. When Jean opened them up, the sun was so blinding that Armin covered his eyes. Looking again, the first thing he noticed was all the dust in the air, and then, the view out of the large glass windows that faced the ocean. 

“Wow,” he breathed, staring out at the waves as the gently rolled in below. “Why cover up that view?”

“My mother,” Jean sighed. He pulled out a stool for Armin to sit at the breakfast bar. 

“Right… you had an argument?”

“Yeah. She’s gone off to visit her sister, and she wanted me to go as well, but I said I wanted to stay here.”

“And you fought about that?”

“Yeah. What - what does she expect? I’m twenty-three, why should I have to go as well? I don’t know what she thinks I’m going to _do_ here. God forbid I open the curtains for once.”

“What do you mean?”

“She hates it. She likes to keep it dark in here.”

“Why?”

“She’s not… that’s the problem,” Jean said. “She’s not well.”

“She’s sick?”

“No. Yes? I don’t know, I don’t understand it.”

“Does she show any symptoms?”

“No… I guess headaches, or… you know. She’s been like this since my dad left.”

“Oh,” Armin murmured. “I’m sorry, Jean.”

“No, don’t… don’t say it like you pity me or anything, it’s just… I hate it here. Hard to breathe. If I wasn’t so worried about her, I would have left long ago.”

“It’s sweet that you care,” Armin said softly, and Jean grumbled, turning away. “I don’t pity you.”

“I know. Thanks,” he said. “We can’t even afford this place, you know? The house is huge, but we have hardly any money. I’ve been telling her to sell for years, but she refuses.”

“Because of your father?”

“Yeah,” Jean sighed. “Because of my father. She acts like she hates him, but she won’t let go of this place. It’s stupid.”

“It’s human,” Armin murmured. 

“Huh?”

“I - I don’t know. It’s just… when you lose someone unexpectedly, it’s hard to let go of the things that remind you most of them.”

“I get that,” Jean frowned. He didn’t say anything for a short while, busying himself by making tea. “It’s just… fifteen years is long enough.”

“No, you’re right,” Armin said, thinking. When faced with a problem, his first instinct was to try and solve it. That was good when it came to organising books or quickly counting change or piecing together parts of a melody - emotions, though, were much too human and complicated for him to perfectly wrap his mind around. “I’m sorry… I don’t know what to suggest.”

“What? Armin, I don’t expect you to fix my problems,” Jean chastised, turning around to give him a harsh look. He shook his head. “Don’t be a dumbass. Being able to talk to you about it is more than enough.”

“But… I want to help.”

“You are helping,” Jean said. “I’ve never felt like I could tell anyone before.”

“Wait… what? Not even Bertholdt and Reiner?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t know. I don’t think they’d get it. Even though their dads were assholes, too…”

“Then why tell me?”

“You’re just… different.”

Armin went silent, words failing him, and tried desperately not to jump to conclusions even when he knew he was already in far too deep. 

“Different how?” he managed to say. 

“You just are,” Jean shrugged. He set down a cup of tea in front of Armin and looked him in the eyes. Armin knew he should have looked away but he couldn’t force himself to do it. “I’ve never met someone like you before.”

“Me neither,” Armin breathed. 

“I should hope so,” Jean said casually; when he shrugged again and broke eye contact, the moment shattered so quickly that Armin wondered if he’d imagined it entirely.

Their conversation returned to normal as they drank tea together. Armin tried to stay focused, but all he could think about was the word  _ different _ . Different how? Good different? He hoped so… surely Jean wouldn’t have opened up like that otherwise, but he couldn’t be sure. He needed the evidence before he could truly believe it.

“I’ll show you around the village,” Jean said. “You’ve never really been here in the day, have you?”

“No,” Armin said. “But it’s so pretty here.”

“Now you can see why I’m out of the house so much. Oh! And we can go to the beach, too. I’ want to show you how much better I’ve gotten at skimming stones.”

“You’ve been practising?” 

“I’ve not got anything better to do,” Jean said. “And don’t forget about the surprise.”

“Oh, yeah - what is that?”

Jean paused for a moment, drained his tea, and pondered as if he was trying to decide if he should tell him or not. 

“Alright, I’ll say,” he decided. “I’ll tell you. I’m borrowing a boat.”

“A  _ boat?” _

Jean laughed. “Yep. Called in a favour, thought we could take it out for a while today.”

“What - what kind of boat is it?”

“Just an old rowboat. I can’t tell if you’re into this idea or not.”

A moment passed before Armin broke into a smile. 

“I would love to do that!” He exclaimed, feeling the anticipation of adventure sparking in his chest. Maybe a small boat trip wasn’t anything special, but to Armin, it was so different from anything he’d done before. His teenage years were spent in his bedroom studying - he hadn’t been any more daring during university, either. So a trip out on a small boat was like a second chance. Really, his whole friendship with Jean felt like a second chance.

“Since you like the ocean so much, I thought it could be fun,” Jean grinned. “It’s not often we get weather like this. Might as well make the most of it.”

“I can’t wait…” Armin grinned. His heart was beating fast and he couldn’t stop smiling. 

“Me neither. We’ll take a walk first, then head to the beach? Everything is down there.”

“That’s perfect. You really… put a lot of effort into this, Jean.”

“What, is that supposed to be a bad thing?” 

“No! I’m - I’m touched.”

“Yeah, well… let’s just go and have fun,” Jean said, turning away again. “Ready to set off?”

“Let’s do it.”

The village perched on the shore was a maze of narrow, winding streets in pastel colours. It looked like it was from a storybook, all bright and pretty with winter flowers in bloom under every window and in every garden. The people they walked by smiled and nodded like they were happy just to see them, and the weather stayed perfect and blue; Armin could almost feel the sun on his neck like it was summer. Jean showed Armin around, pointing out some of the local history. At the very top of the hill, there was an old fort built almost two-hundred years ago, and Jean explained that though they had since been sealed, there were smuggling tunnels built underground. The entire place was fascinating to Armin - he couldn’t quite believe that Jean got to grow up here. 

On the community board were advertisements for the church’s weekly youth brass band concert, offers to assist the elderly, and a colourful poster with information about the next music night in the pub. 

“Shit, I forgot to ask you about that,” Jean said. “Next one is in March.”

“Are you going to play there?”

“That’s the plan,” Jean said. “But… I had an idea.”

“Oh no,” Armin teased. 

“Shut up,” Jean laughed. “I was thinking… we could do it. Together.”

“No! Absolutely not!” 

“What? Why not?” 

“Because I - I can’t do that! I’m nowhere  _ near _ good enough? What - what would we even  _ play,  _ Jean, I’m - just no!” 

“Oh, come on! It would be amazing, we’d blow it out of the water! And we can play your grandfather’s song. It would be amazing and you know it.”

“I don’t, Jean I - there’s no way I could get up in front of that many people. I just… couldn’t.”

“You could. The only thing stopping you is your own fear.”

“For good reason! I’d embarrass myself!”

“So you think I’m a liar?”

“I never said that-”

“No, but I’m telling you, you’re already good enough.”

“You don’t think that.”

“Oh my God, Armin, yes I  _ do. _ It’s been what - two months? I’ve never seen someone make so much progress in such a short space of time. You’ll have all of February to keep going as we finish up the composition - you know it’s nearly done - and then we can play it.”

“Jean…”

“Just give it some thought,” Jean pleaded. “We’ll do it for your grandfather. He used to love music nights at the village. He made me do my first show there, even when I didn’t want to.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. So keep it in mind, and tell me when you decide to agree, alright?”

“You’re so sure of yourself…” 

“Try it sometime,” Jean said fondly. “Now come on. Let’s go and get lunch.”

Armin didn’t say anything as Jean dragged him off down the street, instead just thinking to himself. Could he really do such a thing? To honour his grandfather by playing the composition that he started before he passed away seemed like the perfect idea, but… he didn’t feel as if he could rely on himself to do it well enough. 

Soon enough, as they ate lunch and walked along the seafront, Armin became distracted from his worries and found himself enamoured by Jean again. Even the littlest things about him were entrancing - the way he stopped to pick up a dropped piece of litter when he saw Armin doing the same, the way his eyes creased up when he smiled, the way he ate way too fast and hurt his stomach, even after Armin warned him not to. Armin just loved being around him, and having an entire day at his friend’s side to talk about anything and everything was perfect. They wasted time together doing nothing but hanging out - Armin felt the best he had in years.

The hours passed by so quickly; Armin didn’t realise it was already mid-afternoon until they got to the beach. True to his word, Jean really had gotten much better at skimming stones. He was a little sad that he didn’t have the opportunity to take his hand and show him again, but pushed those thoughts from his mind as they held a competition to decide who had to row the boat when they took it out. Armin won, getting a stone that skimmed seven times - close to his record. 

“We’d best hurry,” Jean said. “The sun goes down fast. It’ll be dark by five.”

“What time is it now?”

“Four.”

“We’ve got time!” Armin smiled. “But yes. Let’s go.”

“Someone’s eager,” Jean smiled. As he walked on ahead, Armin didn’t notice the way Jean’s eyes lingered on him. 

The boat sat on the far side of the beach, the oars neatly tucked inside. It was an old yet sturdy thing, made of wood painted green, perfect for two people but no more. Armin longed to feel the water bobbing beneath them. 

“If we don’t see anyone on the beach, we should quickly row back,” Armin said, still as cautious as ever, even in spite of his excitement. 

“Good idea. I don’t want to get lost at sea. You’d have to eat me to survive…”

“Jean! Don’t say things like that. It’s horrible!” Armin exclaimed, but Jean just laughed. 

“Come on, let’s push it out to shore. You get in first and I’ll jump in after.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. Now give me a hand.”

Together, they heaved the little boat out to the water, and just as it touched the foam, Armin got in. Jean put his socks and shoes in and rolled up his trousers, wading into the water and yelling at the cold. They both laughed as he jumped in, and then they were afloat in the shallow ocean. 

“I haven’t done this since I was a kid…” Armin said, getting used to the strange feeling of no solid earth underneath, and the way the rowboat bobbed up and down with the waves. 

“You look as excited as a kid right now,” Jean teased. 

“But this  _ is _ exciting!” 

“It is.”

Jean took the oars and started rowing. His long legs stuck up as he didn’t quite have enough room, whereas Armin fit snugly on his little seat. He watched Jean’s arms for a moment before shaking his head and leaning over the side to see if he could spot any fish. All he could spy was seaweed and rocks, but it looked pretty nonetheless. 

The village became smaller and smaller as they got further away. Armin admired the tiny shops and the tiny people walking their tiny dogs. He felt so free like this with the expanse of the ocean out ahead of him. 

“It’s a shame the village faces east,” Jean said. “I would have liked to watch the sunset out here.”

“So you can see the sunrise from your kitchen?” 

“When I get up early enough, yeah.”

“Wow… that’s amazing.”

“It’s pretty cool.”

Jean put the oars down once they were out far enough and stretched, grinning at Armin. They were facing each other; as the sky tinted pink on the horizon behind the village, so did Armin’s cheeks. 

“Thanks for asking me out here,” Armin said softly. “This has been so much fun.”

“It’s not over yet,” Jean replied, reaching down to splash some seawater at Armin. Armin gasped as the cold water hit his face and he splashed Jean back. The boat rocked and for a second both of them felt terrified that it might fall over - though they laughed when they realised it was fine. 

“That scared me!” 

“You did it!” 

“You started it.”

Jean rolled his eyes and shook his head, refusing to get caught up in the argument. 

“Hey,” he said. “Armin.”

“Mm?”

“Can you sing?”

“W-what?! No!”

“Aww, come on. Let me hear… it’s not like anyone else is going to listen in.”

“No way… I can’t sing nearly as well as you,” Armin said. “I don’t sing at  _ all.” _

“I’ve heard you humming to yourself as you play,” Jean countered. “Your voice is pretty.”

“Pretty?”

“That’s supposed to be a compliment.”

“Oh… thanks.”

“How about I sing, and you hum along?”

Armin was nervous, but he nodded, and as Jean began to sing, he felt his heart stir like it had that night at the bar when Jean sat at the piano and surprised him. Really, Jean had surprised him over and over again, ever since he’d accidentally broken into his house. He loved it. 

Nervously, Armin hummed along with Jean. He couldn’t look at his face; instead, he stared down at the water, watching as his fingers created ripples in the smooth surface. His hand was going a little numb, but Armin used the sensation of the cold to distract him from how embarrassed he was to have Jean hear him like this. He kept going until Jean’s voice faded away and then finally looked into his eyes. 

Jean was staring back at him. 

“Pretty,” he murmured. 

Armin wanted so, so badly to believe that he wasn’t talking about his voice. 

“Thank you.”

“It’s fine… I mean it.”

“Your voice is amazing, Jean… do you want to be a musician someday?”

“Oh, that wasn’t obvious?” he asked. “I do.”

“You could be famous,” Armin teased. 

“That’s the plan.”

“Don’t forget about me, then, when you make it big.”

“I could never forget about you. Besides, you’ll be my pianist, so…”

“Oh, will I?” Armin laughed, but internally, his mind was racing once again.  _ I could never forget about you.  _

“Yes!” Jean was laughing too. “I insist.”

“What about my dreams?”

“You’ll have time. I’ll pay well,” Jean joked. “But really - what do you want to do next?”

“I was thinking… about following in my grandfather’s footsteps.”

“How so?”

“I think I want to be a teacher,” Armin said. “I can see the impact my grandfather had on you, and it… makes me want to be someone that inspires others, too.”

“And you’d teach history?”

“Yeah, I… I think it gets a bad reputation, when it’s actually really interesting!”

“You know, before I met you, I would have said the same.”

* * *

Just as they predicted, it was dark by the time they got the little boat back onto the beach. Armin had put his foot down when Jean stood up and almost fell into the ocean, and took the oars himself to get them back to shore. They laughed until their cheeks hurt, so hard that they forgot about the cold. Armin never wanted to say goodbye. Standing outside his car, Armin wished that he could beg Jean to let him stay the night, just so they could be together for longer. But he had to get back to feed Stevie and practise the piano. 

“Thank you,” he said again, looking up at Jean with a smile. 

“Don’t,” Jean rolled his eyes. “I told you, it’s my pleasure.”

“I had so much fun.”

“Me too.”

Armin fiddled with his sleeve. “I should go.”

“Yeah, probably.”

There was a long pause. 

“I don’t want to…”

“You have to,” Jean laughed, but he looked a little sad too. “Don’t leave Stevie all on his own.”

“I won’t. But next time, you’ll have to come back with me?”

“Sure. We can pull an all-nighter composing.” 

“As long as I don’t have work in the morning, count me in.”

“Perfect,” Jean smiled. “So… when can I see you next?”

“Whenever!” Armin smiled. “I have the day off again tomorrow, so…”

“I’m working,” Jean frowned. “And I should be back for mum. But in the week?”

“Definitely.”

“Good. Tomorrow you can use the day to think about doing that concert with me.”

“Jean…” Armin started, but he was interrupted by Jean’s cold finger on his lips. 

“Not a word. Just consider it, and let me know later,” he said, and Armin was blushing so much that he couldn’t speak anyway. “Have a safe drive, Armin. I’ll call you.”

“O-okay,” he stuttered, taking one last look before he got into his car. “See you soon, Jean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave a comment to let me know what you think! it means the world to me!


	15. Chapter 15

Jean took his time walking around the village for a while longer after Armin went home, letting himself think over the day and putting off going back to that empty house. Inviting Armin over there wasn’t something he ever expected to do, but there had been an urge within himself to share that part of his life with his friend, no matter how strange it was. Normally, his home life was something he was embarrassed and defensive about, but when it came to Armin, explaining hadn’t been hard at all. Maybe it was because Armin had already been so open with him - Jean knew, though, that he trusted Armin more than he’d ever trusted someone in his entire life. 

Two months. That was how long they had known each other. It felt like yesterday and forever ago, but not just two months. He had changed so much since then, and Jean couldn’t picture ever going back to a time in his life when Armin wasn’t a part of it. It felt like he had always been there. Jean hoped he always would be. When Armin walked into his life - or rather when Jean broke into his house - it felt like the beginning of something. 

Jean liked him. He knew it from the day of their first piano lesson - maybe sooner, but that was when it truly sank in. ‘Like’ didn’t feel quite right. The word wasn’t strong enough to describe the way his whole body turned against him as soon as he looked at or thought about Armin. His stomach clenched, chest tightening up, heart beating so hard and loud he was almost scared there was something wrong. Hiding how much he was affected by Armin simply being next to him was a difficult enough task, and when he smiled or laughed or touched him, Jean felt like he was going to explode. It wasn’t just physical. Growing up, Jean had plenty of confusing feelings regarding his attraction to other men, but he’d never in his life felt such an urge to act on them before. Armin was different in every single way Jean could think of. It was more than something physical… and that was terrifying.

Love was something he never had time for. Jean thought it was pointless, and though he wouldn’t admit to himself, terrifying. Watching his mother in her depression day in and day out for the last fifteen years had been enough to put him off any kind of romance. He didn’t want to put his trust into another person when they could just pack up and leave forever at a moment’s notice. He had music - and music didn’t need to love him back, because it could never abandon him, and nobody could steal it away. It was his. 

But Jean wanted Armin to be his, too. So much that he was willing to risk his own careful solitude if Armin wanted him in return. He couldn’t help but think that even just a day with Armin would be worth the pain that was sure to come from losing him later. 

He found himself shivering as he sat on the beach thinking about Armin and all the things he’d wished he did and said while they were still together. He wanted to get out his guitar and finally share that part of him with someone else, but for some reason when he went to bring it up the words caught in his throat and he hadn’t been able to say them. He felt too vulnerable. Armin was sure to like his playing - he never said a bad word about anything he did - but just the prospect of criticism about something so personal to him made Jean clam up and feel defensive. 

Ocean winds blowing in made the cold relentless - Jean didn’t want to go home, but the prospect of a hot shower was enough to tempt him up from the sand and back to his empty house. His mother wasn’t due back until the next morning, but the moment Jean put his key in the lock the air shifted and he could tell she had come home early. 

Sneaking up the first flight of stairs, Jean silently made his way back to his bedroom, wishing he didn’t have to tiptoe around his home. The drawn-over curtains in the kitchen that Jean had left open served to prove his suspicion that his mother was back, but luckily, he made it into his room without disturbing her. He frowned as he shut the bedroom door behind him. That hot shower would have to wait until morning; she probably needed to rest for a long time after being away from the home she rarely left.

Home. It was a feeling he had more at Mr Arlert’s house. He felt more at ease there. The piles of cluttered stuff, the instruments, the bright colours and the music playing in the background… and Armin. Like always, Jean’s thoughts drifted back to him. Was he home by now? Jean wanted to call, but it would have been ridiculous, needy, far too uncool to call just to check he got home alright like he was his mum or something. He could picture him curled up on the sofa with a book, a mountain of blankets on his lap and Stevie tucked close beside him. Jean sighed. 

He was jealous of a  _ cat. _

Jean wanted to be there with him, though, warmed by the radiator and the heat in his chest whenever they were close - not here in his cold bedroom, listening to the wind outside and the dulled crashing of waves through the window that was jammed shut and frosted over every morning. Armin complained about cold mornings; Jean wanted to be there with him so he could warm him up. As he lay back on his bed, he imagined what it might feel like to have someone beside him. It was strange, he thought, that he only realised how lonely he was after getting closer to Armin. He’d always been too tall for his bed, but it still felt empty. Was Armin a cuddly person? Jean liked to imagine he was - if only to help him keep warm. He couldn’t stop thinking about lying there in his bed and playing with his hair, holding his hand… the kind of simple love he’d never wished for with anyone else.

He needed to talk to someone. His mother was out of the question, and so was Armin - but Bertholdt knew, and he was the same way. Maybe… it would be okay to ask him for advice, considering that Bertholdt and Reiner were secretly together. Tomorrow, after work, he would stop by at their place just to see if they’d talk to him about it. Jean didn’t know if Bertholdt told Reiner that he was gay, or that he liked Armin, but he supposed he would have to explain. It wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have, but it was desperately needed - Jean didn’t know how much longer he would be able to hold back his feelings without confessing. If he was sure Armin returned his feelings he would have done it already, but he was cautious about saying too much and ruining their friendship. He didn’t want to fuck things up like he almost had with Bertholdt. 

It took Jean hours to fall asleep, but when he did, he dreamed of Armin.

* * *

When Jean left for work the next afternoon, the cold was even worse and his mother was still in bed. He left her some food with a note, hoping she would eat it, and took off on his bike for another freezing ride to serve ungrateful, rude customers at the restaurant where he waited tables. He missed working at the music shop; it was relaxing there. He was able to keep up at his current job, but he missed the joy of being around music and getting to talk about it with the people in the store. He missed playing with Bertholdt and Reiner, too - he hoped that one day, they would want to get the band back together. 

His shift dragged. Time never passed by quickly at work, but the eight hours felt more like twelve as he waited and waited for them to tick by. He fantasised about the day he would make it big and quit this job to play music full time, if it ever came. He wished it would. Or maybe if that didn’t work out, he could open his own music shop. After all, he had the experience. 

When he was finally done, Jean walked to Bertholdt and Reiner’s place, pushing his bike at his side because his legs ached from riding so much recently. He hoped they were in - he really wasn’t in the mood to have to come back another day, especially when he was dreading going home even more than usual. How bad would it be to show up unannounced at Armin’s…? He wanted to stay the night again so badly. 

They lived in a tower block of flats, so Jean leaned against the door after buzzing and waited for Reiner to answer and let him in. 

“Hello?” 

“Reiner, it’s me.”

“Jean? Hang on, I’ll buzz you in.”

The door clicked, and Jean made his way up a few flights of stairs, grimacing at the toll it took on his aching legs. Reiner was waiting at the door to his flat when Jean got up to the fourth floor, arms folded over his chest, smiling. 

“Long time no see,” Jean said. He hoped it wasn’t obvious that he was nervous - he had a lot of practise hiding it, but sometimes he could feel his hands shaking. Now was one of those times - now faced with the reality of having to talk about his sexuality, Jean felt himself clamming up. They were gay, too - he  _ knew _ it - so why was this so terrifying?

“How’s it going?” Reiner asked. “You coming in?”

“It’s alright,” Jean nodded, following Reiner inside. 

The flat was small, with two tiny bedrooms and a cramped living space. By the small sofa and the coffee table where Gabi sat doing her homework was Reiner’s drum kit. Jean smiled, remembering Reiner’s stories of angry neighbours and how Gabi loved to watch him play. Reiner’s guitar leant against the packed record stand and a rerun of  _ Top of the Pops  _ was playing on the TV, distracting Gabi from what she was supposed to be writing. 

Bertholdt walked in from the kitchen as they got inside, and Jean felt his heart jump into his throat. Their eyes met and there was a recognition of something being not quite right. 

“Hey,” Bertholdt said. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Jean said, but it came out like an obvious  _ no.  _ “Can I… talk to you guys about something?”

Bertholdt and Reiner looked at each other, silently communicating. Reiner nodded. 

“Sure. Gabi, go to your room.”

“But I’m watching this!” she exclaimed. 

“Gabi… please. I’ll let you stay out with Falco an hour longer tomorrow if you do.”

Gabi paused, frowned, silently packed up her things, and went off to her bedroom. Jean almost wanted to take it all back and run off back home without saying a word. Instead, he rooted himself in place and folded his arms over his chest. 

“What’s going on, then?” Reiner asked. 

“I… didn’t tell him, Jean, if that’s what this is about,” Bertholdt said. 

“Didn’t tell me what?”

Jean opened his mouth, but nothing came out. “I… I’m…”

“Sit down, Jean. Do you want me to tell him?” Bertholdt asked gently. 

Jean sat down in the beaten-up armchair while Reiner and Bertholdt took the couch. He felt like he was at a job interview. All he could do was nod. 

“Tell me what?” 

“Jean’s gay,” Bertholdt said.

Jean tensed up - he wasn’t ashamed, just… unused to talking about it. 

“Oh. Is that it?” Reiner asked. “God, Bertholdt, I thought it was something  _ bad.  _ You knew?”

Jean nodded for Bertholdt. “I told him when I ran into him at my place.”

“When you dropped off the reeds?”

“Yeah, then,” Bertholdt said. 

“Hang on a minute,” Reiner said. “Armin. Jean, are you and him…?”

“What? No!” Jean exclaimed, his face turning bright red. “No, I’m not - we’re not dating! He’s probably not - you know! He’s probably into girls!”

Reiner just burst out laughing, and Jean looked around, confused. 

“Jean,” Bertholdt said, “it’s kind of obvious you like him, though.”

“Yeah, well… you knew that,” Jean grumbled. “I told you.”

“You didn’t need to tell me, Jean.”

“Shut up.”

“I’ll tell you what, I feel… a lot less embarrassed about what happened now,” Reiner said. “I didn’t know if you were going to be an asshole about it. Did you tell Armin?”

“He guessed,” Jean said. “But we… had a conversation about that stuff. He’s fine with it. Called it a different kind of love, or something.”

“He’s right,” Reiner shrugged, putting his arm around Bertholdt’s shoulders to make him blush. “Look, Jean… we should have said something.”

“No, you… you didn’t have to do that.”

“It made things weird when they didn’t need to be,” Reiner said. “And that was a pretty awkward way for you to find out.”

“Yeah, it was a bit of a shock.”

“Then you should have knocked!” Reiner laughed, but there was no harshness in his voice. 

“How long have you guys been… dating?”

Reiner and Bertholdt looked at each other again and had their silent conversation. 

“It’s complicated,” Bertholdt said. “We’ve known about each other’s feelings for a long time.” 

“How long?”

“Remember the first night we played a show as a band? Then,” Reiner said. 

“That was five years ago? Are you  _ kidding?  _ You’ve been going out for five years?”

“No, not going out!” Bertholdt clarified. “We… kissed that night, but we acted like it didn’t happen for a long time. And then after the funeral, and everything went wrong recently… it just sort of happened again. So we’ve really only been dating for a few months.”

“Right,” Jean murmured. He paused, thinking, and smiled. “I’m glad. I’m so relieved I’m not alone in this. What a coincidence, though, that all three of us are…”

“You can say gay, Jean,” Reiner chuckled. “Don’t ever let someone tell you there’s something wrong with it. Fuck that.”

“I don’t think it’s much of a coincidence, either,” Bertholdt said. “I think… people like us tend to find each other.”

Jean felt his chest tighten up when he said that, and he dug his nails into his palms, fighting back tears. The part of himself he’d kept hidden for so long finally felt seen, and he  _ liked _ it. He liked sharing this with his friends, in this safe place where it was okay to be himself to the fullest extent. 

“You’re right,” he murmured. 

Bertholdt and Reiner gave him a moment to collect himself. For the first time since Mr Arlert passed away, things felt normal between the three of them. With hindsight, it was clear why things had been more strained than Jean could understand. 

“Was that what you came to talk about?” Reiner asked. 

“Kind of,” Jean swallowed. “I… wanted to ask for your advice.”

“Advice?” Bertholdt said.

“You’re - what - I just - I really like Armin,” he blurted out, staring at his knees, his cheeks bright red with embarrassment. “Like, a lot. So badly I want to tell him, but I don’t… I don’t know how, or if that’s okay, or if… or if he’s gay too.”

“I’ve never seen you so flustered in my life,” Reiner laughed. “Who are you and what have you done with Jean?”

“Reiner, don’t tease him.”

“Sorry, sorry. Honestly, Jean, I couldn’t tell you. I’ve only seen you two together a few times. It’s hard to know just from that.”

“I… yeah,” Jean sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. Has he… ever spoken about me when he sees you at the shop?”

“Not really. He’s shy.”

“Yeah, he is,” Jean smiled at the thought.

“Oh, you’ve got it bad,” Reiner continued to tease, but he did it fondly.

“Shut up.”

“No. I’m going to grab a beer, you want one?”

“No, I have to ride home after this.”

“Suit yourself. Bert?” 

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“You guys are boring,” Reiner said, getting up and heading to the kitchen. 

“Jean,” Bertholdt said when it was just the two of them, “has he ever mentioned anything that might give you any clues? A girlfriend, or…?”

“Never,” Jean said. “He told me he never really had many friends at all.”

“Are you the only person he knows here?”

“He seems to get along well with the people at his work, but we really only hang out with each other these days.”

“I’m sorry,” Bertholdt murmured.

“Don’t be, Bert. You’ve had a lot going on.”

“You can say that again.”

“How’s the job search going?”

“I applied for a job at a bakery…”

“A bakery?”

“Yeah. You know how I’ve always liked baking… I thought even just working at the till might push me towards that a little bit. Maybe I’ll go back to school or something someday. When I can afford it.”

“Bert,” Jean smiled, “that’s amazing.”

“You think so?”

“Of course I do! I had no idea you wanted to do that properly. Go for it, man.”

“Thanks,” Bertholdt murmured shyly. “Reiner’s really encouraging.”

“I’m what?” Reiner asked as he walked back in. 

“He said you’re annoying,” Jean lied, grinning. 

“Shut up, I did actually hear him, you asshole,” Reiner laughed. 

They were all smiling. 

“We all need to hang out more. The three of us. Or four, if you wanted to invite Armin,” Bertholdt said. Jean’s eyes widened and he looked between his friends, smile growing ever bigger.

“Are you kidding? That sounds great - yeah, we should totally do that!”

“Alright,” Reiner said, cracking open his beer loudly. “Bertholdt told me you two have been working on writing something together?”

“Sort of. There’s this composition of Mr Arlert’s that he never finished. It was for Armin. He was so upset when we found it, so I told him that we’d finish it together. It’s originally for a four-piece, but we’re arranging it for just piano and sax too.”

“You should play it for Reiner and me sometime, Jean. It would be really nice.”

“We’re not done yet.”

“Then you can show us what you have so far,” Reiner said. 

“There’s no way he’d play in front of you guys, anyway,” Jean said, but then a thought struck him. Armin was so nervous about performing at the bar, and so wary… maybe an audience of just two would boost his confidence and make him realise how talented he was. “Actually…”

“Yeah?” 

“I’ll see if I can convince him.”

Jean explained to Bertholdt and Reiner about the music night coming up at the pub in March and how they planned to honour Armin’s grandfather by playing his song, or at least - that Jean was trying to show Armin that it would be a good idea. They seemed to agree, and then chatted on for a while longer about the rerun on the TV, discussing new and old music, and it felt so wonderfully  _ normal _ . Jean felt like he was letting a part of his worry go, a part of the fear of not being accepted, and he couldn’t wipe the smile from his face as he realised he had his friends back. 

It felt like too soon when Jean had to go back home, but eventually, he tore himself from the armchair to make the long journey from the city to his village.

“I’ll ask Armin about us all hanging out,” Jean said. “Reiner, are you sure you can leave Gabi here?”

“She’ll be fine,” Reiner said with a wave of his hand. She’s fifteen, she’s responsible enough to handle herself for one night.”

“Famous last words,” Jean grinned. “She’s going to steal your guitar.”

“She knows better than that,” Reiner said, rolling his eyes. “Thanks for coming over, man. It was great to see you.”

“It was,” Jean agreed. He could feel a lump forming in his throat, but he swallowed it down. It was so great to see both of them, to feel like they were a trio again. Even if music was no longer the glue of their friendship, Bertholdt and Reiner were still dear to him. Not that Jean would admit that, especially not in such an emotional and sappy way.

“Give us a call,” Bertholdt smiled. “And Jean?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry... for everything.”

“What?”

“I just… feel bad about the way everything happened,” Bertholdt said. “If I could go back, I would do it all differently.”

“So would I, Bertholdt, but it’s all in the past, alright?” Jean said. “Stop worrying so much about it.”

“Okay. Thanks, Jean.”

“Thanks to you both, as well,” Jean said. “I, er, I’m glad you could listen to me about all this.”

“Hey, maybe when we see you two together, we can work out how he feels,” Reiner teased. 

“Right, I’m  _ going!” _ Jean exclaimed, bright red in the face. 

Reiner and Bertholdt both laughed; as Jean headed back down the stairwell, he could see them waving from the door with their free hands intertwined. 

All Jean could think about was holding Armin’s hand in return.

* * *

A few more days passed by. When they saw each other, Jean stayed quiet about the meet-up idea, and instead focused his attention towards building up Armin’s confidence. He complimented him relentlessly. Armin’s technical abilities never seemed to hold him back - his main vice was the lack of belief he had in himself. He had this idea that he had to be perfect on the first try. If he made a mistake in his playing, Armin would get upset and embarrassed no matter how many times reassured him that it was fine. Mistakes were necessary, he told him. But Armin always wanted to be perfect. 

Jean’s strategy when it came to asking Armin about Bertholdt and Reiner coming over was to wait for as long as possible. From what he observed, Armin was an adaptable person who worried the most when his fears were far away. He did much better when he had no choice but to continue on, so Jean waited until the day to call about their gathering. He and Armin made plans to hang out that evening and practise together. Before he left, while his mother was out at work, Jean picked up the phone and dialled Armin’s number. 

Armin picked up on the first ring. 

“Jean?” He asked. He sounded nervous. 

“Armin,” Jean smiled, just happy to hear his voice. “How are you?”

“I’m okay… I’m excited for tonight. I bought a new kind of tea, and I was thinking we could try-”

“Just quickly,” Jean interrupted, “can I ask you something?”

“O-oh. Yes, of course… what is it?”

“You know how I mentioned that things are back to normal with me, Bert and Reiner?”

“Yes…?”

“Well, they want to hang out tonight, but I said I was going to yours, so… if you want, the four of us could spend some time together?”

“Oh.”

“Is that alright?”

There was a long silence; Jean had the nervous feeling that he messed up. 

“Sure… if you want to… but I thought we were going to play together today?”

“We are. They can listen, right?”

“What? Jean, there’s no way I can do that!”

“Sure you can. You play in front of me, right?”

“That’s different.”

“No it’s not,” Jean said. “How is it?”

“Because it’s you.”

“Yep, and I’m the best, so you should find it easy to play to those two. They’re harmless.”

“Jean, I really don’t think… are you sure -”

“Anyway, Armin, I’d better head off!” Jean exclaimed, just glad that Armin agreed. He wanted to hang up quickly and steal any chance of him changing his mind. 

“Wait! What about -”

“See you soon!” Jean said, putting the phone down before Armin could get his full sentence out. 

Despite the nerves he was doing his best to conceal, Jean had a smile on his face as he made his way out of his grey house and over to his bike to make the journey to the city. The village disappeared behind him, and he felt his legs settle into a rhythm as he pedalled towards the person he was slowly but surely falling for. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! if you enjoyed, please leave a comment, all of your lovely words inspire me to write faster! and reminder you can chat to me anytime on twitter @vidnyia ! below, there's a link to some wonderful art from chapter fourteen of jean and armin in the boat by my friend @marmventure !
> 
> https://twitter.com/vidnyia/status/1303811290385780737?s=20


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: this chapter contains a non-graphic description of an injury.

Armin stood at the phone after Jean hung up, staring at the receiver with fear churning in his gut. He didn’t know what to think. Bertholdt and Reiner were coming over? Never in his life had he known someone who would invite others over to someone else’s house for them, but given that they met when Jean was breaking in, maybe it shouldn’t have been such a surprise. Still, though, Armin felt more scared than he had in a long time, even if he  _ had _ agreed. Playing in front of Jean was nerve-wracking enough as it was, but with Bertholdt and Reiner added into the mix? There was no way he was going to be able to do it. They were far more talented than him, far more knowledgeable. The skills Armin had leftover from his childhood weren’t nearly enough to bring him up to their level. All three were miles above him. And that was a feeling that made Armin feel pathetically small. 

He drank two cups of chamomile tea back-to-back in an attempt to calm his nerves. It had little effect. Even Stevie could tell something was wrong - he refused to leave Armin’s side, meowing like he was trying to take his mind off it. Though Armin appreciated it, he was still scared beyond belief. 

When the front door opened, Armin felt his stomach drop. 

“Armin?” Jean’s voice echoed through the house. 

“I’m in the kitchen!” Armin called back. 

Jean was obviously tired, out of breath and a little sweaty despite the cold. Armin’s emotions betrayed him as he felt his insides start to warm at his friend’s presence. 

“You look like shit,” he commented. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Just nervous,” he murmured. “How was your ride over?”

“Eh, it was fine. Legs are killing me. At one point I thought my fingers were going to snap off from the cold, but they’re fine,” he said, raising his hand up and wiggling his fingers as proof. He took his spot on the stool beside Armin’s and put his hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “What are you so scared about?”

“Jean - you - you know exactly what!” Armin spluttered.

“Bertholdt and Reiner?”

“Yes! There’s no way I can play in front of them! They’re so much better than I am!”

“They’re not as good as me,” Jean teased. “And you play around me just fine.”

“I don’t know them like I know you.”

“Doesn’t matter. You can do it. You know they’re nice, they won’t judge if you make a little mistake.”

“I’m nowhere  _ near _ good enough.”

“You don’t have to be perfect, this is a rehearsal. If everyone was perfect from the beginning there would be no point to rehearse at all. Just think of it as good practise.”

“For what?”

“For our performance in March. We need to get you used to playing in front of people.” 

“Jean, I never agreed to that, you know I can’t do it, either, so-”

“Ah,” Jean interrupted. “I told you, don’t give your answer until the answer is yes.”

Armin bit his lip. He wanted to say no right then and there, but something stopped him. Was there a part of him that really  _ did  _ want to perform with Jean? Thinking back to the night he saw Jean play at his village, he recalled his own desire to create and share beautiful things, a want that was tangled up in fear and insecurity but still very much there. 

“When are they arriving?” Armin asked instead. Jean grinned, seemingly satisfied. 

“Not for another hour. Thought we ought to have some time for just the two of us, first.”

Armin turned away just fast enough that Jean couldn’t see the look on his bright-red face when he said that. 

“Okay,” he mumbled. “Can we practise?” 

“Sure,” Jean replied. “But let’s go down into the cellar - you’ll have to use the keyboard down there because there’s no way all four of us would fit into the dining room.”

“All of you are so tall,” Armin murmured. His height had never been something he was that insecure about, but admittedly, next to the three musicians, he felt tiny. 

“Your grandfather said the same thing. He was always a little annoyed he was so much shorter than us.”

“Really?”

“Yep. But we make a good-looking band, what can I say?” Jean grinned. 

Jean was right, Armin thought, but he didn’t dare say so. 

“You’re okay,” he teased. Jean looked surprised and laughed loudly, ruffling his hair. 

“I love it when you joke,” he grinned, motioning with his head for Armin to follow him out. “Now come on, let’s go and get some practise in before the guys arrive.”

He set off, but Armin hung back for a moment, reaching up to feel where Jean had messed up his hair with his stomach all twisted up into knots.

* * *

The cellar was even colder than the rest of the house. The chill seemed to embed itself into everything. The spacious room had great acoustics, but the stone walls let the cold seep through and the layered rugs on the floor did little to help. Armin rarely came down here - he always saw it as Jean’s space. Jean was everywhere in here - Armin saw his handwriting on the sheet music stacked up in the corner, one of his shirts draped over the back of a chair, and his saxophone stand set up waiting to be used. It didn’t much look like a cellar - it was bright inside and full of instruments, but it certainly felt like one.

As Jean blew air noiselessly through his saxophone to warm the brass and let the metal expand enough to stay in tune, Armin slipped back upstairs to grab the portable heater he kept in his loft bedroom. As always, he smiled when he saw the window that led up to the roof, remembering how he and Jean had gone out there that night it had snowed and he felt them change somehow. Maybe they could do that again someday. 

Jean was speeding through scales perfectly when Armin came back, lugging the heater down the stairs. 

“You’re that cold?” He laughed, watching Armin struggle. 

“You’re not? It’s freezing in here! I can’t even get my hands to work!”

“It’s called a warm-up for a reason,” Jean chuckled and put his sax down to help him. 

“I know,” Armin huffed, “but I hate the cold.”

“Well, give it a month or two and spring will be here.”

“And the rain.”

“You’re in a bad mood today,” Jean teased, poking him in the side. 

“I’m just nervous.”

“For the show?”

“Not - Jean, I haven’t even agreed to that!”

“You’ve got seven weeks to say yes.”

“Oh, you’re counting the weeks now?”

“Yep. So you’ve got a month and a half to feel better.”

“I’m nervous about Bertholdt and Reiner, not just that,” Armin said with a frown. 

“Ar… I told you about this. They won’t judge.”

“I just want to be perfect.”

“Well, that’s impossible. Unless you’re me, but I’m different.”

“Ha ha.”

“But seriously. I fuck up all the time, you just don’t notice because I act like it was supposed to happen. It’s all about having the right attitude. If you react badly to one little mistake, it’s going to point it out way more than if you just let it wash over you.”

“You really think?”

“I know so. Your grandfather taught me that, so you better listen.”

Armin bit his lip and then turned away without arguing, instead blowing air into his cupped hands to warm them. When he was ready, Jean showed him how to turn on the keyboard and what settings to use. Armin was used to the grand piano upstairs, but he found that standing up to play was also quite fun, and allowed him to use his arms freely. It was much different to being boxed in that tiny dining room. The keys felt just right underneath his fingers. With what they had of their composition propped up on music stands in front of them, Jean and Armin got ready to play together. Jean stood opposite, and they watched each other with smiles on their faces. Armin was more than a little nervous, but he wanted to do this. He wanted to play with Jean. 

The piece was slow and carried by the saxophone in both the original version and their arrangement. Though not exactly sad, the melody was longing and almost forlorn like regret, with chords from the piano gently supporting its movement. Armin felt his emotions swelling with the phrases of the song, and as he watched Jean lose himself to the moment, he could relax and feel himself giving in to the music too. Down here it felt easier. It felt right. He could let go of his mistakes, just like Jean said, and enjoy the feeling of  _ making _ something/ 

By the time they had reached the end of the music they had so far, both were out of breath and beaming. 

“That felt different,” Jean said. Armin could see his eyes shining with excitement and wondered if his own looked the same. 

“It really did,” he said. 

“You played so well, Armin are you - have you been taking lessons behind my back?” 

“What? No!” Armin laughed. 

“Are you sure you haven’t been cheating on me with another piano teacher?”

“I can’t remember us deciding to go exclusive,” Armin teased back, unable to resist, his cheeks flushed bright red. 

Jean looked shocked for a moment before he burst out laughing, nothing but joy on his face. Armin laughed too, swept up in it, happiness overwhelming. His hands were shaking with the feeling of it. He was so  _ happy.  _ He was so happy he met Jean, that they were friends, that he got to learn music again and that Jean really thought he was  _ good _ at it. The warmth from the portable heater filled the room and spread through Armin’s chest. His cheeks hurt from smiling so much; he felt full and content like he’d eaten a good meal.

“Let’s go again,” Jean said. “From the top.”

They ran through the piece a few more times so they could get a feel for what worked and what didn’t. Armin noticed some chords he wanted to change in their arrangement and scribbled down his ideas right underneath Jean’s. He liked the way their handwriting looked side-by-side. 

After playing once more, Jean dragged Armin back upstairs for another cup of tea to calm his nerves before Bert and Reiner arrived. After such a good session of playing Armin felt a little better, but knowing that he was going to be heard and judged by people he barely knew was still terrifying. Especially when they were Jean’s friends. 

The doorbell rang ten minutes later than Jean estimated. Stevie perked up a little so Armin picked him up on the way to answer the door. He didn’t want his cat to be upset or scared by too many voices or sounds happening when he couldn’t see what was going on. 

“Hey,” Reiner said, holding up a plastic bag with a six-pack of beer inside. “Thanks for having us over!” 

“I told him not to bring that,” Bertholdt said sheepishly, looking awkward. “Jean said you didn’t drink, but he insisted.”

“Oh, uh, it’s fine,” Armin said, holding Stevie a little closer to himself. “Come in. Jean’s just in the kitchen, so…”

“Holy shit,” Reiner murmured. “Jean wasn’t kidding when he said Stevie was a proper housecat now.”

“He sort of just came in and never left,” Armin said sheepishly, standing aside so the two large guys could walk past him into the house. 

“I always said he was cute,” Reiner nodded. “Mr Arlert loved feeding him bits of his sandwich. And he thought it was funny that Jean called him Stevie, too.”

Armin couldn’t help but feel a little bit sad when everyone spoke of knowing his grandfather so much better than he did, but he just smiled and took them through to the kitchen. 

“Look like the band’s back together,” Jean grinned. “Well, you know. Not actually. But in spirit.”

“Hey, Jean,” Reiner said. “Brought beer.”

“Sick, thanks.”

“It looks so different here,” Bertholdt said, hanging back in the doorway and looking around. 

“Armin and I worked really hard,” Jean said. “It took forever, but we finally organised most of this stuff. I knew Mr Arlert was messy, but it was something else.”

“And that’s coming from you,” Reiner snorted, “who couldn’t even remember to put a pencil in his sax case half the time.”

“Hey!” Jean laughed. “That was then, asshole. I’m more responsible now.”

“Oh, Armin, you should have seen what Jean was like back then,” Reiner went on. 

“Reiner, shut up-”

“He had such a little temper-”

“Reiner!” Jean yelled, and as Armin saw how red he was, he couldn’t help but giggle. 

“What was he like?” He asked. Jean looked at him as if he was a traitor.

“Oh, he’d yell at everyone,” Reiner said. “Especially the other kids at school. God forbid anyone-”

“You two can fuck off if you’ve come here to expose me,” Jean laughed. “What’s the point in trying to turn Armin against me?”

“We’re just reminiscing,” Bertholdt teased. Armin was surprised that Bertholdt was getting in on it too, but he really found it funny.He was happy for Jean, too - the awkwardness from before was gone. Armin noticed how close Bertholdt and Reiner stood together, and how Reiner’s hand rested on the small of his back, but there was nothing off or strange about it. They were all comfortable with the way things were, and it made Armin feel more at ease with himself, too. 

Reiner and Jean drank a can of beer each while Armin and Bertholdt just had water. They talked about Bertholdt’s new job at a bakery - Armin learned that Bertholdt had a fondness for baking that Jean had never mentioned to him before. Jean and Reiner bickered and were rowdy, but that came as no surprise. Armin was surprised to feel content and actually  _ happy  _ that his cramped kitchen was actually full of friends. 

“So, you work at a bookshop?” Bertholdt asked. He sat on Jean’s usual stool at the breakfast bar next to Armin.

“Yeah,” Armin smiled. “It’s quiet, but I really love reading. I have a lot of time to think.”

“Do you like fiction?”

“I prefer non-fiction, but I’ve read plenty…”

“Oh, I like Dickens,” Bertholdt said. Armin smiled up at him. 

“Me too!”

“What kind of non-fiction do you read?”

“I really like history,” Armin admitted sheepishly. 

“I remember Jean saying now. Russian history, right?”

“Oh, um, sometimes…” Armin blushed. Jean remembered? Not only that he liked history - but what he’d been reading the second or third time they even met? He was beginning to feel more and more like there was something between the two of them he couldn’t ignore, but Armin was afraid. 

As he and Bertholdt spoke more about history and Dickens and baking, Armin couldn’t shift the worry in the back of his mind that he was clinging onto Jean because he was so desperately lonely before they met. What were these feelings? What if it really  _ was _ just friendship he was desperate for, and he was mistaking everything? Armin knew he had a tendency to overthink, and he wished he could just  _ know _ without question. 

He looked over at Jean. He was leaning against the counter, laughing with Reiner, his can raised up to his lips. He sounded so happy, his laugh melodic and joyful. He had a dimple on his left cheek that Armin loved to look at, and his pushed back hair was really growing out. His beard was a little scruffy like he hadn’t shaved in a while, but it made Armin’s stomach twist up into knots. And his hands, so much larger than his own, with his long perfect fingers that Armin wanted to touch… everything about him was intoxicating. Armin wished the rest of the world was as beautiful as him. But... what if he was just lonely?

What if he  _ wasn’t?  _

“Armin?” Bertholdt asked. “Are you okay?”

“Huh?” Armin snapped out of his trance. He’d been caught staring. 

“You were looking at him,” Bertholdt said, smiling softly. There was recognition in his eyes. 

“I was,” Armin whispered. “Is that… okay?”

He didn’t mean to ask, but the words came out before he could stop them. 

“Of course it’s alright. I look at Reiner, too, you know.” They shared a knowing look. 

Armin felt  _ seen _ , and it wasn’t terrible. It was comforting, even. It felt okay. 

“Alright, Armin,” Jean said. “You ready?”

“Huh?”

“To go and play a little bit, dummy. I want to show Bert and Reiner what we’ve been working on.”

“Oh…”

Any feeling of relaxation was gone as soon as Armin remembered that he had to play now. It was so easy earlier, but now Armin could feel his hands shaking and knew it was going to be hard to play even a single chord. 

“Come on, you’ll be fine.”

Armin knew for a fact that he was probably not going to be absolutely fine. He was getting in his head again, he  _ knew _ it - but that did nothing to stop the feeling of slipping down farther into his own insecurity. 

“Okay,” he murmured. 

At the very least, Armin thought, the cellar was warm now. The four of them came down; Armin was the only one who didn’t have to duck while walking through the doorway. 

“It’s been a while…” Bertholdt murmured. When Armin looked at him, he looked sad, like he was remembering things he would never get back. 

“Sure has,” Reiner said. He went over to the drum kit and sat down, picking up the sticks that were resting on the snare. He twirled them around his fingers skillfully, grinning. Jean looked more excited than Armin had ever seen him. When their eyes met he beamed with happiness and Armin couldn’t resist smiling back in spite of everything. 

“What kind of piece is it, Jean? Does it have lyrics?”

“No,” Jean said, “no lyrics. It’s more blues than jazz, really. It’s got a kind of sad feeling.”

“Huh,” Reiner said. “Consider me interested.”

“What, you weren’t before?” Jean scoffed. 

“Just play it already, will you?”

As they bickered, Armin stood at the keyboard and found himself getting more and more nervous. Bertholdt and Reiner seemed so at ease here while he was tense. Armin didn’t know how to bring back the wonderful, relaxed feeling from before. Now he was only scared. What did he think he was doing? Who did he think he was…

“Armin,” Jean said. “You look like you’re about to throw up…”

“I’m fine,” Armin murmured. He felt like an imposter, but he didn’t want to let Jean down either. 

“You don’t have to be nervous,” Bertholdt encouraged. “You can do it.”

“I can try…”

Jean picked up his saxophone and gave Armin a smile that did nothing to help the feeling in his stomach. 

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s play. Just like before.”

_ Just like before, _ Armin reminded himself. He took a deep breath and watched Jean as he counted them in, and then they began to play. 

It wasn’t as easy as it was before, but Armin’s hands still moved over the keys correctly. He had to focus, and he found that staring down at the piano helped him to push the feeling of being watched and listened to out of his mind. Bertholdt and Reiner were perfectly quiet, but Armin was too scared to look up, afraid of seeing their reaction. 

Jean, as always, was perfect. There was something about the way he played that was different to any music Armin had ever heard. Maybe it was the hours and hours of practise and dedication, or his natural talent, or just  _ passion.  _ Armin loved the way he played. Everything about him was inspiring. 

“And that’s all that we have so far,” Jean said. Armin was startled when he realised they were already done - he had zoned out completely but somehow still managed to keep playing. 

It was silent for a moment. Armin kept staring at the keys, still too scared to look up at their tiny audience. Eventually, Bertholdt broke the silence. 

“You can really tell it was his piece,” he said softly. His voice was quiet like he didn’t want to disturb the atmosphere, but Armin’s heart was beating so hard and fast that it was already spoiled for him. 

“Do you think so?” Jean asked; Bertholdt nodded. “Good. I was hoping so… even though I’d never heard one of his compositions before, I had that same feeling. It was very him.”

Armin frowned. He had never felt that way. But then, he supposed, he’d never known the man at all. Those weren’t his thoughts to have. 

If anything, the piece reminded Armin of Jean. 

“I love it,” Reiner said. “You’ve seriously only been playing a few months?”

“No, I… I played some stuff as a kid,” Armin blushed, sheepish and embarrassed. 

“He’s amazing,” Jean declared. “Don’t let him play it off, he’s really talented.”

“Jean, don’t-”

“You are,” Bertholdt said. Armin finally looked up at him, and he was surprised to see that Bertholdt looked  _ excited _ . “It’s amazing!”

Armin and Jean glanced at each other, both hopeful. 

“Thank you,” Armin murmured shyly. 

“You really are his grandson,” Reiner said. He put the sticks back and stood up, scooting out from behind the drum kit. He and Jean then started to talk about the chord progression and the choices he made with the melody while Armin hung back, turning off the keyboard slowly to make himself look busy. He still felt shy, and didn’t know what to say to add to the conversation. He would feel as if he were butting in. 

They went back upstairs and sat in the living room. Jean and Reiner drank a little more, and since none of them had eaten dinner yet, Armin decided to order pizza. His hands were still shaking as he held the phone. Laughter and music from the living room; Jean and Reiner were singing. Armin blushed and fumbled through the order, distracted by Jean’s voice. He remembered humming along to Jean’s singing in the boat and missed the way they sounded together. He didn’t join in when he came back, though - Armin just sat down and listened. 

Between records, Reiner spoke up. 

“Can I ask a nosy question?” He asked, looking at Armin. 

“Oh, um… sure?”

“Was there some kind of fight going on with your dad and Mr Arlert?”

Armin paused, blinked. 

“I’m sorry?”

“Reiner,” Bertholdt chastised. “You’re being rude.”

“I asked if I could ask!” 

“That doesn’t mean-”

“No, it’s… it’s okay,” Armin said, not wanting Reiner and Bertholdt to bicker. “You’re wondering why he didn’t leave the house to my parents?”

“Yeah… and why you never met Mr Arlert. What’s going on there?”

Jean gave Armin a worried look, but Armin brushed him off as if saying it was fine without words. 

“Well… my parents passed away while I was at university,” he explained. 

“Oh. Oh, shit,” Reiner said, wincing. “I’m sorry, dude, I didn’t mean-”

“It’s okay,” Armin insisted. “But really, I don’t think there was any chance he would have left this place to them, even if they were alive. Well… I’m not  _ positive,  _ but it seems that way.”

“Why, though?”

“My dad just never talked about him. It seemed like they had a bad relationship but I never found out what happened.”

“Oh,” Reiner said. 

“That piece was for Armin,” Jean said quietly. “But… he didn’t get to finish it.”

“I remember you saying that,” Bertholdt nodded. His voice was also soft like he was scared of upsetting anyone. “Do you wish you could know why they didn’t speak, Armin?”

With all eyes on him, Armin seemed to shrink a little. 

“I… don’t know. I could probably find out somehow. I haven’t looked through all of his personal things yet.”

“What’s stopping you?” Bertholdt said.

“I don’t know if I can…”

“Why not?” Reiner asked. 

“It just feels wrong,” Armin explained. “Like I’m just a-”

Before he could finish his sentence Armin was interrupted by a loud knock at the door. 

“Pizza,” Jean grinned. “Finally, I’m starving. I’ll get it.”

“Wait, Jean, I’ll give you the money-“

“I said I’ll get it,” Jean smiled, and set off for the door faster than Armin could follow.

* * *

Somehow, Jean managed to convince the three others to eat their pizzas on the roof. Even though it seemed like the worst idea in the world to Armin, Jean considered it brilliant, and once Reiner was on board it was impossible for Armin and Bertholdt to get the pair to change their minds. Reiner and Jean were much more headstrong. 

“I’ll go up first,” Jean announced. “Reiner, you afterwards.”

“Got it,” Reiner laughed. “It’s not going to collapse in, is it?” 

“I hope not,” Armin said, suddenly even more worried. “Maybe we shouldn’t…”

“Don’t be a baby,” Jean said. “It’s going to be fine, so you better come out after. As thanks for getting the pizza.”

“I was going to - oh, fine,” Armin relented, knowing he wouldn’t be able to stop the slightly-tipsy Jean as he climbed out of his little window. 

The stars were just as obscured as they were the first time he and Jean climbed out here. The four of them sat side by side on the roof, Jean singing along to the songs playing from the record player in Armin’s room until someone from the street below yelled at him to shut up. He found himself having fun again, even if he listened more than he spoke. The cold burned Armin’s cheeks but he was sat so close next to Jean that their legs were touching, and it made him forget all about it. 

“The thing about fathers,” Reiner said, a little drunk, “is that they almost always suck.”

“Reiner, not this again,” Bertholdt sighed. He was holding a slice of pizza in his hand that was almost entirely untouched. 

“You know I’m right!” 

“I do, but come on. Not after…”

“Oh. Right, yeah. Sorry, Armin.”

“It’s okay,” Armin said, shaking his head. “I think you’re right, too. My dad was a good man, but… my childhood friends weren’t as lucky.”

“See, Bert?” Reiner said. 

“It’s just not a nice topic, Reiner. Can’t we talk about something else?”

“How about uncles?”

“ _ Reiner,”  _ Bertholdt said harshly. Armin was surprised by the tone of his voice, but also a little curious. 

“Uncles?” He asked. Jean tensed up beside him. 

“I grew up with my uncle,” Reiner explained, pointing to his slightly crooked nose. “And he was a piece of shit. Gabi’s his kid, but I’m raising her for a reason.”

Armin didn’t need to ask anything else - he got the picture. He wished that his three friends could have had better upbringings, that they could have grown up with more happiness. He lost himself in thought again as Bertholdt steered the conversation towards something more light-hearted. Jean and Reiner just ended up getting rowdier and rowdier; when they decided to arm wrestle, Bertholdt gave up on trying to be sensible and let himself be christened the referee. 

“I won!” Reiner cheered, flexing and winking at Bertholdt, who pretended to not notice. “Alright, Jean. I dare you… to walk on the roof.”

“What?” Armin asked, finally contributing to the conversation again. “Jean, that’s a - that’s a really bad idea.” 

“You are  _ on,”  _ Jean agreed. “I’m not backing down from a dare, I’m going to look like even more of a wuss in front of my - in front of Armin. Where do I have to walk?” 

“Climb over the top so you’re on the back garden side,” Reiner grinned. 

“This is a bad idea,” Bertholdt echoed. Armin remembered his first assumption that he would like Bertholdt and was relieved that he was right. 

“I don’t care,” Jean laughed. “Reiner, hold the pizza. I’m doing it.” 

Armin felt helpless to stop Jean as he was goaded on to climb up the other side of the roof. He could feel his heart in his throat, and there was a pit in his stomach, the good feelings all gone as unease settled over him. 

“Jean, please,” he said, but Jean was already off, scrambling up the tiles and over the top to get to the other side. Armin felt too unsteady to really chase after him, and when he tried to move he felt himself start to slip and had to hold onto Bertholdt to stop himself from falling. 

“I did it!” Jean yelled, calling from the other side. “I made it over, so you can stop-”

Jean’s voice cut off with a shout; Armin felt his blood run colder than the winter air as everything slowed down. He could have sworn he heard the rush of wind louder than the music as Jean fell down to the ground, but nothing was louder than the  _ crack _ as he hit the bushes below. 

The second of silence after was the eeriest thing of all, only interrupted by his  _ own _ voice calling out Jean’s name as his instincts took over and he rushed back for the window to try and get to him. In some part of his mind, he knew Bertholdt and Reiner were right behind him but all he could focus on was putting one foot in front of the other as he lifted himself from his bedroom floor and down two staircases to get out into the back garden. Was he okay? What if the worst happened? What was he going to do without -

“Jean!” He cried, pulling open the door and finding him there in the bushes, sat up and awake, seemingly okay but definitely in shock, all dazed and confused. Armin couldn’t process the relief he felt when he saw him looking back, eyes unfocused but  _ open _ \- he was awake and okay. 

“My leg,” he said, pointing, and Armin’s stomach dropped as he looked to see that Jean’s leg was definitely broken. “It feels wrong…” 

“Jean!” Bertholdt called, rushing to his side. “What did I - are you okay?”

“My leg feels wrong,” Jean repeated. He was slurring a little bit from the shock. 

“You fell off the roof,” Armin said shakily, sinking to his knees in front of him, taking his hands and wishing he could throw his arms around him and just cry with relief. 

“We need to get to the hospital,” Bertholdt said. He was a ghostly shade of white. “Reiner-”

“I’ll carry him,” Reiner said, voice hollow, a different man than the one from before. “I’ll carry him to Armin’s car.”

“Yeah,” Armin said, getting to his feet again, staring at Jean. Things could have gone so much worse than it just did, but the shock and terror of it were still fresh in his mind, adrenaline pumping through his body. He followed as Reiner carried the half-delirious Jean out to his car, dimly aware of one thing.

His feelings for Jean were definitely more than just his own loneliness.


	17. Chapter 17

“I hope you know how lucky you were,” the doctor said, looking at Jean over the top of his glasses. “It’s a clean fracture.”

The room was sterile, blinding white that hurt Jean’s eyes. He was laying with one leg in the air on an uncomfortable bed. The paper sheet underneath him crinkled with every movement, mixing with the low hum of various machines to make Jean feel tense. He hated this kind of almost-silence; he wanted to listen to some music. It was difficult for him to calm down without it. For the last two hours, he’d been in and out of rooms, being poked and asked to move his leg, having lights shone in his eyes and made to answer the same questions over and over again by different people. 

Now he was finally finding out the extent of the damage he’d taken when falling off the roof. The doctor held up a picture of an x-ray where it was clear that the smaller bone in Jean’s left calf had broken when he fell off the roof. Jean was still a little hazy, and in a lot of pain, frustrated and annoyed but he really _did_ feel lucky. 

“As you can see there’s a clear break in the fibula. I’m very surprised that you survived that fall with no other injuries but a minor concussion.”

“Will I be able to walk on it?” he asked, which made the doctor laugh. 

“No, absolutely not. It’s going to take six to eight weeks to heal once we get it into the cast. Driving is also out of the question.”

“Right…”

“We’ll provide you with a pair of crutches, but rest is recommended. What do you do for a living, Mr Kirstein?”

“I’m a waiter.”

“Okay. Well, you’ll have to take some paid time off. You’ll be able to get a note from your GP. You live with your mother, correct?”

“Yeah-”

“That’s fine, then, as long as you’re not living alone.”

“But-”

“Just wait there for a second, I’m going to get the nurses so they can put the cast on. You’ll be free to go afterwards.”

He walked out, and Jean felt as empty as his house. He didn’t want to go back there, _trapped_ there for the next eight weeks with his mother. How was he supposed to breathe, to go out - how was he going to practise his saxophone? His mother wouldn’t allow it. He’d have to go weeks on end without playing, without seeing Armin… Jean didn’t know which was worse. 

He felt so stupid. What was he thinking? Climbing up on the roof like that, worrying Armin - he was such an _idiot._ He wished he listened. He couldn’t help wanting to show off just a bit, though, and look where it got him. 

Jean bit lip in frustration, staring at his broken leg. He would have to find some way to not go crazy when he was back at home. How could he ask Armin to visit, though? His mother had made it clear that she didn’t like anything to do with Mr Arlert, let alone his grandson. Six weeks was the best-case scenario and it felt so impossibly long. Jean felt sick, but not from the throbbing pain in his leg.

Two nurses came back in with the doctor, and Jean zoned out, thinking as they started to fix up his leg.

* * *

“Armin,” Reiner said tensely. “I think I’m going to have to get back soon.”

They had been in the waiting room for almost two hours. It was late - later than Armin liked to be out, and his worry got worse and worse as he wondered if Jean was okay. He’d cried the whole drive to the hospital and remained teary ever since. The shock wore off after they took Jean away to help him and Armin realised how close he came to losing another important person in his life. 

His parents hadn’t made it to the hospital. But Armin hated this place all the same. 

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Gabi, right?”

“I’m sorry, man,” Reiner said. “He’ll be fine, yeah? It’s just his leg.”

Just his leg. What if it wasn’t, though? What if they discovered something really awful while he was in there, and he’d never see him again? What if -

“Armin,” Bertholdt said softly. He put his hand on Armin’s shoulder and gave him the same look he did when he caught him staring at Jean. “I promise he’s going to be fine. Do you want me to stay with you?”

“No… it’s okay.” Armin shook his head. “He’ll be fine. Yeah. Yes… he’s fine. Don’t worry… you ought to get back, too.”

“Are you sure…?”

“Absolutely,” Armin lied. He desperately wanted the company but he was also wary to keep Bertholdt and Reiner for too long. He didn’t feel as if he could beg them to stay when they were heading off. 

“Okay,” Reiner said. “Is he going to stay at yours tonight?” 

“Oh, I… I guess so, yes,” Armin said. “That’s… I have more than enough room for him. And I’ll drop him back home tomorrow if he’s well enough…”

“He’ll be fine. Just let me know. Here-” Reiner leaned over and grabbed a leaflet and a ballpoint pen, scribbling down his phone number. “Give me a call when he’s awake tomorrow. I owe him an apology.”

“I have work in the morning, but maybe we can drop by,” Bertholdt suggested. 

“Okay,” Armin nodded. 

He watched them hurriedly leave, feeling bad they waited for so long when Gabi was alone back at home. He sat by himself in the uncomfortable plastic seat in the waiting room, listening to the drone of voices and static coming from the radio. Minutes ticked by. The clock on the wall got louder each time Armin noticed it until each tick was so noticeable that Armin wondered how he’d ever tuned it out. 

In his head, he played the piano to calm himself down, imagining in detail the feeling of his fingers pressing the keys. His song matched the clock instead of trying to fight against it. It was funny how comforting the piano was to him now. What a few months ago caused him nothing but anxiety now was a blessing that saved his thoughts from spiralling, and it was all because of Jean. 

When the door opened, Armin snapped out of his thoughts, instantly looking up. Relief flooded through him when he saw Jean standing there with an orange cast around his leg, crutches, and an exhausted expression. He looked so tired, but he was _there._ He really was okay, he’d survived the fall off the roof. Seeing him in person was the only thing that could reassure him. Armin’s eyes filled with tears, and he quickly ran over, wanting to help Jean walk if he needed it. 

“Jean!” he cried. “You’re okay!”

“Never been better,” Jean grunted. He was being sarcastic but Armin could tell there was relief there too. 

“What’s - what happened?”

“Broken leg,” he said. “Minor concussion.”

“That’s all?”

“Somehow… where are Bert and Reiner?”

“They had to go… Gabi was still at home.”

“Figures. Thanks.”

“What for?”

“For staying,” Jean murmured. “That took forever.”

“It’s - it’s nothing. I was so worried about you…”

“It’s just a broken leg,” Jean said. They both looked at each other’s tired faces with fondness. “Look, Armin -”

“Stay at my place tonight,” Armin insisted. “Please?” 

Jean looked at him, surprised that he’d been interrupted.

“Okay,” he murmured. 

Getting Jean into the car proved a struggle. Armin’s car was small - it didn’t really have enough room to seat Jean comfortably even on a good day, but with a broken leg it was hard to get him in at all. He managed to get into the backseat without hurting himself; Armin drove quickly, wanting him to be comfortable. 

“I’ll have to go home,” Jean murmured while they were sat at a red light. “Six to eight weeks before I can walk without my crutches. And I can’t work.”

Armin’s heart sank. He knew how much Jean hated it at home. As always, he began to search for a solution to the problem at hand, but the conclusion he came to was too frightening to ask for - Armin was shy. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said softly. 

They stared at the red light, waiting for it to turn.

“Serves me right, I guess.”

“You don’t deserve to go back there, Jean.”

“I don’t really have a choice.”

“Will she be able to look after you?” 

Jean swallowed as if he might cry. 

“Armin,” he said quietly. “Light’s green.”

Armin knew. There weren’t any cars behind, so he turned around to look at Jean in the backseat instead of driving on. 

“Will she?”

“Maybe… if she has to. She usually does the stuff she _has_ to do.”

“Oh. Okay…”

If the answer had been a definite and sure _no,_ Armin would have invited him to stay instead. Even if Jean didn’t particularly want to be around him that much, surely it would have to be better than going home - who was he to assume, though? He didn’t say anything, just put his foot down and drove. All he wanted was to do the best for Jean, but he didn’t want to be overbearing with his offers and make him feel like he couldn’t say no. Maybe he was overthinking again… but when wasn’t he?

When they were home and inside there was an uneasy feeling in the air. Stevie seemed worried - he wouldn’t leave Jean alone. It was silent at first, unusually quiet, so Armin put a record on to calm them both a little and ease the tension. Armin was exhausted and wide awake at the same time - his body was so incredibly tired, but his mind was racing, overwhelmed with shock and stress and too much worry. 

“Are you in pain?” he asked as he gingerly sat down next to Jean. 

“I won’t lie, it really kills,” Jean chuckled weakly. “That’s what I get for dicking around, I guess…”

“I’ve never been so scared in my life, Jean. I thought…”

“You were worried about me?”

“Of course I was worried about you! I thought you were going to _die!”_

Jean bit his lip as if he really was guilty. 

“You know it would take more than that to kill me,” he said. 

“No, I don’t,” Armin breathed. “You don’t know how easy it is to just lose the only people you have… I thought it happened to me again.”

They looked at each other, but Armin couldn’t maintain eye contact for more than a second before he turned to stare at his knees. 

“I’m sorry,” Jean whispered. Those were the last words Armin expected to hear. 

“It was a mistake,” he said quietly. “Just… please be careful. And let me look after you tonight.”

“I’ll have to go back to my mother’s tomorrow.”

“I know. Unless…”

“What?”

Armin paused. He wanted to ask Jean to stay with him so badly but whenever he went to say the words they wouldn’t come out. Probably, he thought, because if Jean stayed, Armin would never want him to leave. 

“It’s nothing,” he lied. 

“Sure?”

“Mmhm.” 

“Okay, suit yourself,” Jean yawned. Armin immediately followed suit, blushing a little when Jean smiled at him. He was so tired, but Jean never failed to get a reaction out of him. 

“Do you… oh,” Armin said. He looked at the sofa and realised that it would be far too easy for Jean to fall off and hurt himself even more. “Where are you going to sleep?”

“I should be fine here,” Jean said. “I-”

“No, it’s not safe,” Armin shook his head. “You should take my bed.”

“I can’t manage going up two flights of stairs on these crutches right now!”

“What about one?”

It took Jean a brief moment before he realised what Armin meant.

“You mean Mr Arlert’s room? I thought…”

“It doesn’t matter,” Armin said. He would think about it later - Jean needed the room. That was more important than his selfish desire to leave it untouched. 

“I think I can make it up one flight, yeah,” Jean said, “if you’re sure…”

“Okay. Let’s try.”

“I need to get the key first. I… threw it on top of the kitchen cabinets.”

“What? Why would you do that?” Jean asked as he grabbed his crutches and got back to his feet with a groan of pain. 

“I, um… so I wouldn’t be able to go back in there?”

“You locked yourself out of part of your own house,” Jean stated. “Why…?”

“Because… it’s complicated,” Armin said. “It just felt wrong. Like I was intruding.” 

“But it’s your house.”

“Like I said… it’s complicated,” Armin repeated, deflecting. 

“Okay, okay.”

Armin had to stand on the kitchen counter and use a fork to get the key back. It was wedged right at the back of the counter where he threw it after locking all of his grandfather’s personal things in his bedroom. He hadn’t expected to need to return so soon, and having the metal key back in his hand sparked the guilty curiosity he had about his grandfather’s life.

It took a long time to get up to the next floor. Jean went up each stair at a time, keeping his bad leg off the ground while using his upper body strength to propel himself up with his crutches. Armin stood behind him with his arms out as if he would really be able to catch him if he fell. His real reasoning was that maybe he would be able to soften Jean’s blow if they both went toppling down the stairs. 

He waited outside while Jean used the bathroom and got ready for bed, using the same spare toothbrush he did the last time he stayed over. When he finished, Armin dragged the boxes of things in his grandfather’s bedroom into the office with great difficulty. He didn’t use the office, either, so it was fine enough to leave the piles of personal things in there. The box with the photo albums inside made Armin feel a little more nervous as he remembered going through his grandfather’s life with Jean and finding the revelation about the mysterious David person his grandfather was presumably buried next to. 

Pushing those thoughts from his mind, Armin focused on Jean, helping him into the room. It was tidy now, far too neat compared to the rest of the house. The walls were light grey and like the rest of the house, there were dark wood floorboards instead of carpet. Everything in the room looked untouched. Armin took the slightly dusty sheets off the bed and changed them, then let Jean borrow his baggiest clothes as pyjamas and waited outside the door again while he changed. Armin didn’t want to leave Jean when he might fall over and hurt himself. He felt bad enough for not stopping him before, so this was like the least he could do. 

“Alright, I’m decent,” Jean called. Armin slipped back into the room and felt his heart squeeze almost painfully at the sight of Jean there on the bed in a t-shirt and pair of pyjama bottoms rolled up over his cast. His hair was still messy and he looked tired and pale, but Armin felt himself react as if he were standing in front of the most attractive person in the world. 

Maybe he was. 

“Why orange?” Armin asked, pointing to the cast in a vain attempt to distract himself from Jean’s face. 

“It was that or pink,” Jean said. “And I think orange is more my colour.”

“I think pink would suit you too,” Armin smiled. He sat down on the very end of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly. He felt guilty but he hid it. 

“Everything suits me,” Jean said. “I feel like I’m at school and you’re about to write on my cast.”

“Have you ever broken a bone before?”

“Nope. But you know how it was in school when someone would break a bone and everyone would sign the cast.”

“Are you asking me to sign it?” Armin asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“I’m reminiscing,” Jean grinned. “But I wouldn’t say no…”

“Let me get a pen.”

A minute later, Armin returned with a felt-tip in hand. 

“What are you going to write?”

“I don’t know… what do you think?” 

“You could write your name, or draw something… I don’t know. When Reiner broke his arm when we were sixteen I drew a c-”

“Okay,” Armin quickly interrupted, knowing what he was about to say. “I’ll just… write my name.”

“Don’t press too hard on it!”

“I won’t,” Armin promised. 

At the very top, right by Jean’s knee, Armin wrote out his name in his neat handwriting, smiling a little bit when he saw it there. Being so close to Jean was as intoxicating as it always was. He was just always so… Jean. To finish, Armin took his time drawing a treble clef next to his name, making sure it was perfect before pulling back with red cheeks. 

“Cute,” Jean murmured. That did nothing to help Armin’s embarrassment, especially when he looked up and realised that Jean was looking at him and not his signature. 

He needed to stop presuming things that weren’t true, but it felt so difficult when he felt the fondness of Jean’s stare like he meant it in the way Armin wanted. 

“You should rest,” he said quietly. “Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“You sure? Do you want some painkillers?”

“They gave me some at the hospital. I’ll yell if I need you.”

“What, just in the middle of the night?”

“Yep. You’re a light sleeper, aren’t you?”

Armin chuckled. “Yeah, I am.”

“Perfect,” Jean teased, and took a moment to get the blankets over himself. It was as if every simple task had become so much harder now. “You should rest too.”

“I will. Goodnight, Jean.”

“Night, Armin.”

* * *

Armin didn’t sleep well. It wasn’t because of Jean - despite all his teasing, he didn’t disturb him to ask for anything at all. Still, Armin gave up trying to rest when he heard his neighbours leaving their house for the school run. The reason why Armin had such a restless night was because for the first time in months he had a nightmare about his parents. He knew exactly why - the sudden shock of Jean falling from the rooftop reminded him that life was fragile and could be taken away just for making one simple mistake. His parents had lost their lives because of someone else’s mistake on the road, and it was only by some miracle that Jean had survived at all. 

He shivered. The cold was the worst part of this room, especially since the portable heater was still down in the cellar where they left it after playing in there for Reiner and Bertholdt the day before. That felt like years ago - after the ordeal at the hospital and getting his grandfather’s room ready for Jean took so long, Armin’s perception of time was warped. 

Resigning himself to the small amount of sleep he managed to get, Armin stepped out of bed and winced at how cold the floor was. His grandfather’s room was so much warmer, with a bed that wasn’t so uncomfortable and an actual radiator and space for his books. It still felt wrong, though, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to sleep there. 

Armin walked as silently as he could downstairs so as not to wake Jean, but when he passed by his grandfather’s room, he heard his voice and found that he was already awake. 

“Armin?”

He stopped at the door but didn’t open it. 

“Yeah?” 

“What time is it?” 

“Eight-thirty.”

Even through the door, Armin heard Jean sigh. 

“Can you grab me those painkillers?”

“Of course I can,” Armin said softly. “Do you want anything else?”

“A cup of coffee sounds really great…”

“Alright. I’ll be back in a second.”

Glad to have something to do that would help Jean out, Armin bustled around the kitchen with a bit more life to him. He put Jean’s coffee, water, painkillers, and some fruit for breakfast onto a tray next to his own cup of tea and carried everything back up where Jean was waiting patiently for him, sitting halfway up in bed. He looked just as tired as Armin felt. 

“You didn’t sleep well either, I take it?” Jean asked, taking the painkillers right away. Armin sat down on the bed next to him rather awkwardly. 

“No,” he admitted. “What happened to shouting for you?”

“Changed my mind. Thought you might need your beauty sleep.”

Armin scoffed. “Wow.”

“I’m just teasing.”

“Sure you are.”

“I am!” Jean laughed, but it wasn’t long before it died down and he frowned. “Hey. Can I borrow your phone?”

“Sure,” Armin said. “To call your mum?”

“Yeah,” Jean sighed. “I need to make sure she’s going to be awake when I get there.”

“Jean…”

“What’s up?”

“I don’t know, I just… wish I could do something about this. About you and your mum, I mean.”

Jean frowned. “That’s not your responsibility, Armin.”

“But you’re my friend, Jean. I want to help.”

“I don’t even know what more you _could_ do. You don’t need to do any more than you already are. That’s already enough. Stop blaming yourself.”

“I can’t help it,” Armin admitted sheepishly. “I just want to help in any way I can, Jean.”

“And I’m saying you’re already doing that,” Jean replied. 

“I know, I just…”

“Shh. It’s fine,” Jean said. He sat up a little more to be able to drink his coffee and winced in pain. Armin gently helped him up so his leg wasn’t disturbed by the blankets and bit his lip nervously, worried the entire time that Jean was going to end up more hurt. As they ate breakfast together, Stevie wandered in, following the sound of their voices. Jean seemed touched and it made Armin’s heart soar. 

It was perhaps a strange thought, but one Armin couldn’t get out of his head - the three of them felt like a family.

* * *

Jean’s leg hurt. It was a throbbing, deep ache all through his left calf, one the painkillers only took the edge off. It wasn’t the worst pain in the world but it was just bad enough that it was hard to take his mind off it. Not even the phone in his hand was a good enough distraction. Dialing his mother’s home number was the signal of the beginning of his eight week stay of torture. Going back there was the last thing he wanted to do, but in lieu of any other option, he would. 

The phone rang for a long time before she picked up. 

“Hello?” Her voice was cold and lifeless. Jean felt a pang of worry in his chest. Sometimes he wished it was possible to not care so much, to appear like he used to.

“Mum. It’s me.”

“Jean? Where have you been?” 

It was as if the moment she realised it was him, she went straight from sounding empty to harsh and irritated. Jean took a deep breath.

“I, uh, I fell down some stairs last night. I broke my leg.”

“You what?”

“I… broke my leg. I’m going to be coming home…”

“How are you supposed to go to work?”

Jean swallowed. Somehow, he knew that was all she was going to care about. 

“I’ll get sick pay,” he murmured. 

“Right,” she sighed. “And you were with…?”

“Bert and Reiner.” He left out Armin, knowing it would make her even more annoyed at him.

“Just come back to the house. Can you get them to drop you?” 

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

She hung up the phone and Jean listened to the dial tone for a second before sighing and awkwardly leaning on one crutch to put it back on the receiver. He knew it was stupid to hope for anything more than that, but Jean had been unable to help wishing for at least a little bit of sympathy or worry from his mother. But he knew all she saw when she looked at him was his father. 

“Jean? You okay?” Armin asked quietly, peering around the doorway from the living room to the hallway where the phone was. Just seeing the concern in his eyes made Jean feel a little bit better. 

“Mm,” he said. “Let’s go.”

* * *

The car ride, much like the night before, was uncomfortable. Jean had to keep perfectly still to avoid hurting his leg even more than it was already, and his crutches barely fit into the backseat with him. He kept his sax case on his lap, knowing he’d only get to play it now while his mother was at work, which wasn’t very often. Armin was quiet as he drove slowly along the winding cliff roads that led to the village. 

“Jean,” he said softly as they parked up outside his house. Jean looked out of the window and wished he didn’t have to go inside. 

“Yeah?” 

“What are we going to do about the music night?”

Jean opened his mouth and closed it again immediately. In all of the adrenaline and pain and exhaustion of the last twelve hours he had forgotten completely about the composition and their plans to play it at the music night in March. His heart sank. There was no way he would be able to continue giving Armin his piano lessons while he was stuck here. 

“Shit,” he murmured. 

“Jean?”

“I… don’t know. We haven’t even finished composing, and my leg… how many weeks is it until then?”

“Seven, I think.”

“We can’t do it.”

“But-”

“There’s no time. I’m going to be rusty as hell by then, too. You didn’t really want to, right? You should feel lucky,” Jean teased, but he just sounded sad. Armin didn’t say anything. A moment stretched out for longer than it really was in tense silence before Armin got out of the car to help Jean with his things. 

Armin helped Jean get his sax case on his back before he grabbed his crutches and slowly eased himself out of the car. Looking up, his house seemed taller and more imposing than it usually was. Jean sighed. Six weeks.

“Am I going to see you?” Armin asked at the gate. 

“If we can arrange it while my mum’s out of the house, maybe,” Jean said. “Trouble is that it's not very often.”

“You know I’m always happy to pick you up and drive you back.”

“That would be nice,” Jean said. “Thanks, Ar.”

“I’ll miss you just walking into the house though.”

“I’ll miss _you_ ,” Jean said. There was a lump forming in his throat that made it sound as if he were about to cry. 

“I’ll miss you too.”

Jean regretted going up onto that roof even more when he heard Armin speak like he was going to cry too. He couldn’t stand this, but he had to. When Jean looked up, he saw the curtains move in his mother’s room like she was watching, but she didn’t come down to help him up the stairs. He sighed and looked at Armin one more time. 

“You better practise every day,” he said. 

“I will,” Armin promised. 

“And make sure you hug Stevie extra for me.”

“Jean, you make it sound like you’re dying…”

“Might as well be,” he mumbled. “God… I really don’t want to do this.”

Another long silence. 

“Then… then don’t.”

“What?”

“I-” Armin started, looking nervous. “I know it’s probably weird to ask, and I shouldn’t, but - stay with me? I’ll… I have work, but when I’m home I can make sure you’re okay, and you can stay in my grandfather’s room, for as long as you want! And I can cook and Stevie can keep you company, and you can play as much as you want, I just… I know it’s -”

“Armin, I...” Jean said, trailing off. It was even harder to talk; his heart hurt so much. He wanted more than anything to just say yes to him, to go and move with Armin, but the part of him that felt so responsible for his mother couldn’t let it go. Not only that, but… with his feelings the way they were, how was he supposed to ask Armin to help him if he got stuck in the bath or the shower? Seeing him every morning, every night… he wanted it so bad, but he just couldn’t agree.

“I’m sorry,” Armin said quietly. “It - it was weird of me to offer.”

“No! No, it wasn’t at all,” Jean replied. “I… _I’m_ sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

“I already asked way too much of you.”

“You didn’t,” Armin murmured. “But… okay. Let me help you in, then.”

They got down the few steps and stood outside the door to say their goodbyes. Jean would have hugged Armin if he wasn’t holding himself up with his crutches; instead, he just smiled fondly at him and thanked him for knocking on the door in his stead. 

“I’ll see you soon?” Jean asked hopefully as Armin started the walk back to his car. 

Armin swallowed and nodded. He looked like he was going to burst into tears. 

“See you soon.”

Jean’s mother didn’t look happy in the slightest when she opened the door for him, as if coming down the stairs had been some great hardship. And Jean _knew_ it wasn’t easy for her, but it wasn’t easy for him all the time, either. He stayed and he provided and no, he wasn’t the perfect son, but he was _trying._

She didn’t say a word. 

“No ‘get well soon’?” He joked, if only to try and ease his own nerves a little. 

“I’m frustrated,” she said curtly. “This is causing me a great deal of time and effort, Jean. For something that could have been avoided.”

Jean’s grip on his crutches tightened.

“Right. Well, it’s great to see you too, mum.”

“Drop the attitude, Jean. Did you do this on purpose to get out of going down to work on the fishing boats?”

“I’m _sorry?!”_ Jean exclaimed. “What? Why the fuck would I do that?”

“You’re fine with lying to me, so why should I trust you?”

“What?”

“You were with Mr Arlert’s grandson again, not Bertholdt and Reiner.”

She looked more annoyed than exhausted and it was frustrating Jean more and more. 

“So? I’m a grown adult.”

“And you live with me. So I expect honesty. How can you go about and get some stupid injury and expect my sympathy, especially after lying to me?”

Jean looked at her, felt the oppressive damp darkness of his house, listened to the silence after she finished speaking, and made up his mind. As best as he could, he turned around and made his way back to the front door, completely done with this whole place. He was upset, more than he’d ever admit, and he knew he had to put his own sanity first. 

“I’m going, then,” he grunted. 

Holding himself up with one crutch, Jean managed to get the front door open, and flung it open as his mother yelled at him to come back. 

“Jean! What do you think you’re doing!” 

Jean ignored her, going as fast as he could on his crutches to the street again, praying that Armin hadn’t left. He wished he'd said yes.

“Armin!” He yelled. The sound of a car door opening and rushing footsteps was pure relief.

“Jean? What's going on?” 

“Take me with you,” Jean pleaded, looking at Armin desperately as he rushed down the steps to help him. He looked like he’d been crying. “I’m - I’m sorry, but you’re right. I really can’t do this.”

Relief passed over Armin’s face and a tear fell down his cheek. 

“Of course, Jean. Of course I will.”


	18. Chapter 18

They left without any of Jean’s things, vowing to come back later. Armin had experienced some of the highest and lowest moments of the whole winter in the last twenty-four hours, and he didn’t even know how to make sense of his own emotions as he and Jean drove off back home. One moment he had been crying in the car, feeling rejected and lost, and the next Jean was calling his name, begging him to let him stay. His hands were shaking from the adrenaline rush of being wanted as he drove back much faster than he had set off earlier that day. 

They didn’t speak until they were back inside. Jean looked awful, for lack of a better word - it was obvious that he was exhausted and hurting both emotionally and physically. Armin almost lost himself in his thoughts right as he got in the door while trying to think of a solution, but he quickly snapped out of it when he realised he needed to help Jean with his saxophone case and his crutches. 

“Thanks,” Jean murmured. Armin hadn’t heard him this sad since the music shop closed down. He hated it just as much as he did back then. 

“It’s okay,” Armin replied softly, carrying his case for him and letting Jean sit in the living room before doing anything else. That could all wait - they needed to talk. “What happened in there?”

Jean bit his lip and looked down at the floor. Armin wanted to uncurl Jean’s fingers from his clenched fist and hold his hand, but he tightened his own to stop himself, nails digging into his palm. 

“Nothing that was even that out of the ordinary,” Jean murmured. “It just… she treats me like a kid when I practically take care of everything.”

“What did she say?”

“She said it was my own fault I broke my leg, and yeah, maybe it was, but - she didn’t care! All she cared about was me getting another job so she can keep living in that stupid fucking house that she _hates._ It’s so stupid. It’s so pointless.”

“She hates the house?”

“She can’t stand it. She can’t even bear to open the curtains.”

“Because of your dad…” Armin guessed. 

“Yeah. He ruined everything.”

“I’m sorry, Jean.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” Jean said, smiling softly at him. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.”

Armin felt his stomach twist up into knots. 

“Me too,” he whispered. 

“Can I be honest with you?” Jean asked. He sounded nervous. Armin had always assumed he had no problems being honest.

“Of course you can.”

“I feel… guilty.”

“Guilty? Why?”

“Because I… I know she’s not alright? We don’t talk about it. We don’t talk about _anything_ , I’ve just always known. Ever since dad left. And I was an asshole too, but I tried to take care of things for so long and it’s so _frustrating_ when she doesn’t seem to care.”

“Jean… I think you did the right thing. It wasn’t fair for you to have to stay there like that.”

“Even if that’s true, I still can’t help but worry.”

“I know. But you can’t keep doing the same thing forever, or nothing will change. Maybe… this is a good thing.”

“A good thing?”

“Maybe she’ll realise how much you do once you’ve been gone a while,” Armin offered. Jean didn’t seem to cheer up at all. “Let me take care of you now.”

“I’m not used to it,” Jean smiled softly. 

“Well, get used to it,” Armin smiled back. He had to take a moment to breathe after looking at Jean for too long. “I’ve got you.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s okay. Do you want something to eat?”

“Sure.”

“Food first,” Armin agreed. “We’ll figure out the rest later.”

* * *

They spent the rest of the day in the living room, listening to music and relaxing. Armin didn’t really feel like doing anything at all, not when he was so tired and so drained. They ordered food in for the second night in a row and talked about anything and everything to take Jean’s mind off what happened with his mother. 

Six to eight weeks. Jean was going to be here with him for six to eight weeks, and if it hadn’t been because of an injury, Armin would have been over the moon. His loneliness was non-existent when Jean was around - he loved it whenever he came over because it made his place feel like a home. It was a constant reminder that he had a true friend, and Jean… Jean had chosen to be there with him too. Jean liked being with him enough, he _trusted_ him enough to look after him. The simple feeling of being wanted and needed was so wonderful that Armin wondered how he’d lived without it for so long. 

“Armin,” Jean said after they had finished eating, both so full with takeout rice that they could hardly move. 

“Yes?”

“Uh… I’m really gross right now,” he said. “Do you think you can help me get into the bath?”

Armin’s stomach clenched so hard he thought that he might throw up. 

“What?!” he spluttered.

“I can’t get in on my own!”

“Yeah, but -”

“I’m not asking you to _wash_ me, Armin, I just can’t get my cast wet, or…” 

“Right. Uh, yeah. So…”

“So I’ll put a towel on and you can help me in. Or just close your eyes.”

“Okay.” Armin swallowed and tried to push his feelings down. “If you’re sure…”

“I need to wash, Armin, I’m gross enough right now as it is.”

“Okay, okay. Do you want to go now?”

“Yeah.”

By the time they struggled all the way upstairs another ten minutes had gone by and the pit of nerves in Armin’s stomach had doubled in size. He had to keep reminding himself that Jean had asked him to do this, that he wasn’t taking advantage of him or being weird, and that it was _necessary._ Still, though, the idea of Jean being right there next to him in just a towel was wreaking havoc with his mind and body. 

In the bathroom, Jean sat down on the edge of the tub while Armin ran the taps. 

“How hot do you like it?” he asked, immediately cringing and regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth. Jean looked stunned into silence for a moment until he realised what Armin meant too. 

“What - oh! Oh, shit, yeah, the bath. Sorry. Uhh, pretty hot.”

Neither of them looked at each other, but Armin felt like a thousand eyes were on him. He was sweating as he made sure the water was the right temperature and then put the towels into the empty sink next to the bath where Jean could reach them. 

“There. Um. I’ll wait outside, so… give me a shout when you need me…?”

“Okay.”

Armin had never left a room so quickly in his life. He leaned against the door once he was outside, hiding his bright red face behind his hands, and sank down until his knees were up to his chest. Knowing that Jean was changing in there made it feel like a fire was burning under his skin. This was too much. He wasn’t used to _wanting_ like this. It was strange and terrifying and part of him liked it so much. 

“I’ve got my towel on!” Jean yelled from the other side of the door. Armin dug his nails into his palm for just a second before taking a deep breath and forcing himself to stand up. 

Walking in with his eyes open was a mistake. 

Armin knew Jean got a lot of exercise, but he didn’t expect him to look like _that._ Jean was lean and tall, perfect. The steamy room made his face flushed and even though he looked exhausted he somehow wore his tiredness well. He looked like a model. _Better_ than a model. It was almost absurd to Armin that someone like Jean, with his perfect face and perfect proportions and perfect body, was sat on the side of his bathtub in nothing but a towel - and Armin had to touch him, and not only that, but lower him into the bath once the towel was off, too. 

It definitely wasn’t just the steam from the bath making him lightheaded. Armin shut his eyes immediately, unable to stand another second of looking at Jean knowing what he had to do.

“I didn’t realise I looked so bad,” Jean teased. He knew he looked good, surely - there was no way that someone with a body like that could ever be anything but perfectly confident. But… did Jean know the extent of that, and would he be okay with Armin doing this if he did? 

“I’m just giving you your privacy,” Armin said unconvincingly. The whole room felt charged up like the air before a thunderstorm. “How do we do this?”

“I can’t get my cast wet,” Jean repeated. “So I’ll have to keep my left leg out of the water, propped up on the side.”

“Okay. So I’ll help lower you into the tub while you hold the leg up…”

Armin’s thoughts were drifting and he found himself able to do little to stop them from running away with themselves. He thought about getting into the tub with Jean, about washing his back and his hair and making sure he didn’t hurt himself. He thought about kissing him, what it might be like in that steamy room where -

“Ready?” Jean asked, snapping Armin out of it. 

“Yeah,” Armin said. “Um…” 

“I’ll put my arm around your shoulders, and you lower me down.”

“Um, so…”

“Open your eyes, I don’t want you to drop me.”

Armin did as Jean said, feeling his insides twisting up into knots when he looked down and Jean just wearing a towel around his waist. What if it fell off? How was he ever supposed to live that down? For once Armin was thankful for his long hair as it fell over his face to hide his blush. Jean reached up and wrapped his arm around Armin’s shoulders, and Armin was so close to him that he couldn’t breathe. The whole room felt boiling hot. 

“Shall I lower you down…?”

“Give me a second,” Jean murmured. His voice was so soft and low, more than Armin had ever heard it. “Alright, close your eyes again. I’m taking the towel off.”

As soon as Jean said that, Armin’s grip faltered and they both slipped, almost sending them both into the bath - somehow, Armin’s reflexes managed to save them from toppling into the water. When he opened his eyes, he was staring straight at Jean, their faces just millimeters apart, both flushed and sweaty and embarrassed, but at least Jean’s cast was dry and safe from the water. Armin had never seen Jean this close before, not even that night on the roof when it snowed. Jean was pressed up right against him and he could tell that both of their hearts were beating impossibly fast.

“I’m so sorry!” Armin spluttered once he came to his senses, shutting his eyes again and pulling back from Jean’s face once he was properly in the bath. If he had just looked down…

“I’m in the bath, what are you apologising for?” Jean asked. Armin had his hands over his face and wasn’t looking, but he could tell that he was rolling his eyes. 

“N-nothing, it’s - it’s fine, I’ll just - I’ll wait for you to be done! Yell for me if you need something!” Armin exclaimed before practically running out of the room. 

He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard Jean exhale shakily as he left.

* * *

Jean’s broken leg became almost normal to them over the next week and a half. After getting Jean’s things from his house while his mother was at work, the two of them found ways to adjust to the life they’d be living for the next month and a half. There was a natural rhythm to it. They bickered all the time but neither of them meant it - there was a fondness to the way they teased and argued with each other, almost like they’d known each other for years. It was mutually beneficial - Armin helped Jean get around and gave him a place to stay, while Jean provided the company Armin hadn’t even realised he’d been missing for years of his life. 

The living room had become an impromptu music room to save Jean from walking down the steps to the cellar. They pushed back the sofas and the coffee table, leaving only enough space for the two of them to sit next to each other while the rest of the room was full of instruments. They even brought up the drum kit and double bass so Jean could use them to work out parts of the composition for those parts. 

Always being together meant that Jean and Armin flew through the rest of the composition. While Armin was home from work they spent much of their time working on it and practising together. Evenings were spent sat side-by-side at the piano, and each night Armin felt like he was making more and more progress. Playing the piano felt so natural to him now that he wondered how he had ever been so scared of it. 

After hours of work, trial and error, mistakes and frustration and joy, they were so close to being done that Armin could taste it. The simple yet sad melody that his grandfather dedicated to him was now fleshed out and almost completely finished, made for four as it originally was, but just for the two of them as well. Armin liked their version, but he longed to hear the complete piece the way it was intended with Jean’s flair and passion at the same time. He cried enough while playing as it was, but he knew that if he could just hear the full piece properly, it would be overwhelming in a way he almost craved. 

Jean was able to make it up and down the stairs and into the bath on his own after some practise, but he usually didn’t do so without Armin around, just in case. While Armin was out at work, Jean usually spent his time fixing things about the composition and working on music of his own. He thought about his guitar in his closet back at his mother’s house and wished that he had brought it with him, though the acoustic guitar Mr Arlert had was just fine to practise on. For some reason, he hadn’t told Armin that he could play the guitar. Something told him it wasn’t the right time yet. 

A lot of the time he was just bored. After working two jobs for such a long time, the amount of free time he had felt foreign to him, especially when he couldn’t spend it the way he would have liked. Even after coming so many times to the house alone between Mr Arlert’s passing and Armin’s arrival, Jean felt lonely while Armin was gone; it felt strange to be in this house without him. The house and Armin felt linked together in a way Jean hadn’t expected them to. He remembered how wary he had been of Armin when they first met and how quickly that feeling had shifted into something… else, something much more confusing.

On a normal Thursday afternoon while Armin was at work and Jean was sat working on the composition, the doorbell rang. Stopping what he was doing, Jean picked up his crutches with a sigh and hobbled over to the door, where upon looking through the peephole his bad mood was immediately lifted. 

“What are you guys doing here?” He asked cheerfully, opening the door to see Bertholdt and Reiner standing there. 

“What do you think?” Reiner asked, grinning right back. “We’ve both got the afternoon off, so let us in. It’s fucking freezing out here.”

Jean gladly let them in, grateful to see them both. It was the first time the three of them had gotten together since the night Jean fell off the roof, and Jean was glad he was finally getting the chance to talk with them about the things he wasn’t ready for Armin to hear yet. The sofas had to be pulled out a little bit so they could all sit down, but they made enough room for the three of them to sit comfortably in the living room full of instruments. 

“Well that night was a disaster,” Jean said, setting his crutches down beside him, his bad leg propped up on the coffee table. 

“That’s one way of putting it,” Bertholdt said. “Jean, I’m sorry we couldn’t stay at the hospital. Gabi…”

“No, it’s fine,” Jean said. “I get it. I had a ride with Armin.”

“How come you’re staying here, anyway?” Reiner asked. 

“Oh, uh…” Jean started, remembering that he’d never told Reiner and Bertholdt about the less-than-perfect relationship he had with his mother. What better time than now? “Honestly? My mum and I… we don’t get on that well. It would have been a nightmare. I tried to go back and I just couldn’t do it.”

“Oh,” Bertholdt said. “Is it because she’s too protective, or…?”

“That’s part of it,” Jean said. Deciding to come clean, Jean explained everything from the beginning. He told them about his father leaving and how it changed his mother, how she never saw him the same way, and how it was like she couldn’t stand to look at him yet never wanted him to leave. He explained how her reaction to his injury and that the thought of staying with her in that cold grey house for months had pushed him over the edge, unable to do it anymore. 

“I’m still sending her most of the money I’m making from sick pay,” he said, staring down at Armin’s name written nearly on his cast. 

“It’s good of you,” Bertholdt said. 

“Thanks.”

There was an uneasy silence. 

“Dads really do suck,” Reiner said, sure of himself as ever. “Plain and simple.”

“Yeah,” Jean chuckled weakly, agreeing. As much as things were strained with his mother, he didn’t resent her like he resented his father for leaving. It was all his fault. “Yeah, they do.”

“I’m glad you could stay here, Jean,” Bertholdt said. 

“Speaking of, what’s it like living with him?” Reiner asked. “We didn’t really get much of a chance to find out what his feelings might be that night, considering you had to go and make a scene.”

“Falling off the roof is me making a scene?” Jean snorted. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bertholdt frowning like he was deep in thought. 

“Yep. Drama queen,” Reiner teased.

“Sure.”

They rolled their eyes at each other. 

“But honestly, though,” Reiner said, leaning back and putting his arm around Bertholdt’s shoulders. “What’s it like?”

“Living with him? It’s… really nice.” Jean gesutured around the room at all the instruments. “We have so much space and time to just play together. It’s amazing. He’s already made so much progress since you both heard him.”

“He’s already amazing,” Bertholdt agreed. He still looked like he was deep in thought, and his eyes were fixed on the double bass in the corner of the room.

“Has anything… _interesting_ happened?” Reiner pressed. 

“Like what?”

“You know what I mean.”

“With Armin?” Jean said, suddenly feeling embarrassed. “He had to help me into the bath before I worked out how to get in myself.”

“Holy shit,” Reiner laughed. “What was that like?”

“...Interesting,” Jean blushed. 

“You’re embarrassed!” 

“Fuck off, Reiner. I’m sure it was just uncomfortable for him.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Bertholdt said.

“What do you mean?” Jean asked. 

“Nothing really, it just might have been embarrassing maybe, but not uncomfortable.”

“I don’t know,” Jean shrugged, stretching his arms high up into the air. “It’s impossible to say.”

“Don’t count it out,” Bertholdt said. There was something in his voice that made Jean think he knew something he didn’t. “How’s the composition going?”

“We’re so close to being done. There’s just a few things I want to change, but we basically have the whole thing finished.”

“Which version?” Reiner asked. “You were doing two, right?”

“Yeah. One the way he intended it and one with just sax and piano, so we could play it. Both are pretty much done. I usually work on the four-piece version on my own since I know more about that stuff. And I prefer to go through the piano parts with him.”

“Bet you do,” Reiner teased. 

“Stop it, Rei,” Bertholdt chuckled, knocking into him. “But Jean, could I have a look?”

“At what?”

“The piece.”

“What, really? Are you sure?” Jean asked, a little taken aback. After Bertholdt’s outburst about hating music he was surprised that he wanted anything to do with the piece. 

“If it’s okay with you.”

“Of course it is!” Jean said. Struggling a little, he reached forwards to grab the large book where they wrote in the piece from the table and handed it to Bertholdt. 

Even though Bertholdt and Reiner had heard it before, as they both leaned in to look over the notes he and Armin had so carefully pencilled in, Jean felt nervous - especially when he heard Bertholdt humming the melody.

“I… kind of really want to hear this,” Bertholdt murmured. 

“You already did.”

“I know, but… properly. With all the instruments.” 

“If you know another double bassist and a drummer, send them my way,” Jean snorted. “Otherwise, I can’t help you.”

“Jean you idiot,” Reiner said. “Come on. Let’s give it a go.”

“What - wait, really?”

“Really,” Bertholdt smiled. “I… I really want to.”

“Okay,” Jean breathed. He felt almost tentative and scared to get his hopes up. “Let’s do it.”

* * *

Armin had taken to buying a takeaway cup of hot chocolate on his way home from work every day. There was a 24 hour cafe right next to the bookshop, and the thin paper cups meant that the heat escaped and warmed his hands. It was a comfortable and homey feeling. Armin enjoyed his walks home with his hot chocolate and the promise of seeing Jean soon after a long day of work. He liked his job, but he couldn’t help but feel worried about Jean while he wasn’t there. 

It was always colder when the night sky was clear and free of clouds, but it made the view so much prettier as Armin walked home. He kept his eyes up on the stars as he walked, breath fogging out in front of him, singing a song in his head. Thinking about Jean made him walk a little faster, and before he knew it he was turning onto their street. 

When had it stopped being his grandfather’s street? When had it become _their_ street? 

Armin didn’t know, but he refused to let himself get carried away with those thoughts as he reached the house. He threw his empty cup in the bin outside and reached for his keys, but stopped mid-motion when he realised there was _music_ coming from the living room. He could see the light coming from behind the curtains and knew Jean must be inside, but the sax wasn’t all he could hear. The steady beat of drums was unmistakable and when Armin strained his ears he could hear a double bass, too. Turning back to check, he saw Bertholdt’s car and knew the band was back together. 

Armin almost dropped his keys rushing to get them into the lock. The music hit him in a rush of noise when the door opened, so much louder, so loud that the neighbours must already have complained but Armin found himself unable to care. It was upbeat and fun and Armin recognised it as a cover of one of the songs Jean recommended to him back when he made that pile of records. He felt so _alive_ , like the melody was under his skin and beating with his heart. It was just as addictive as Jean made it out to be before he understood. Armin didn’t even wonder what had brought the three of them to this moment - he was just itching to join in. 

Jean was sitting on one of the stools from the kitchen to play, and his eyes lit up when Armin came in. They smiled at each other so brightly that Armin felt warm all over, forgetting the winter cold from his walk home. The keyboard was set up and on, and Armin walked over, tracing over the chords he thought he could pick out before he was playing with them by ear. 

And it was a transformation. It felt so _right_ , like he belonged here, like this was what he was meant to discover within this house. He didn’t play perfectly but it didn’t matter. It felt so joyful, especially when he and Jean made eye contact as they played and shared in the moment of pure happiness and expression. Who cared if it wasn’t perfect? They were all making something _together._

All four of them were out of breath when the song ended. The music hung in the air after them like it didn’t want to go. 

“Armin,” Jean smiled, looking up at him. 

“Jean,” Armin beamed right back. “Hey. I’m home.”

Bertholdt and Reiner looked at each other like they were sure of something. 

“We… can we take it from the top? The piece?” Jean asked, looking around at the three of them. “We played it earlier, but it didn’t feel right without you.”

“The… the four part version?” Armin asked. He swallowed, emotional.

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” Bertholdt interjected. Reaching over, he handed Armin the sheet music. “I would really, really like to hear it.”

Armin felt so choked up all of a sudden that he couldn’t speak past the lump in his throat. He took a moment to wipe away the tears that had welled up in his eyes and sniffed. 

“There’s nothing I’d like more.”

All four of them smiled. Armin thought he could find out the story behind this gathering later - right now he only wanted to play. For once he wasn’t nervous, and his hands were shaking only from excitement as he put the music on the stand in front of him and waited for Reiner to count them in. 

The difference was noticeable immediately - with the bassline from Bertholdt and Reiner’s intricate yet perfectly steady drumming, the piece came alive. Armin didn’t know how he could tell, but he somehow knew that this was what his grandfather intended. The fact that it wasn’t perfect didn’t matter. All of them but Jean made mistakes at times, especially Armin, but they all found their way back to each other regardless. 

Armin didn’t notice he was crying until they came to the end and he saw his own tears on the keys. It wasn’t just from sadness, but from relief, too. 

“Are you okay?” Bertholdt asked. 

Armin couldn’t bring himself to reply. He was just looking at Jean, at his smile and his expression and the tears that were streaming down his face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry if there are a thousand typos i didn't have time to proofread this :((


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night before their performance, while Jean's cast is removed, Armin finally decides to uncover the mystery of his grandfather's past.

Then and there, the four of them decided without even having to say it out loud that they would play that piece together at the music night in March. All of them knew it was far from perfect - there were still sections that needed to be tweaked and slightly rewritten and it went without saying that a lot of rehearsal was needed - but there was something that  _ clicked _ when they played together, something that was special. Jean felt it deep in the part of him that loved music more than anything else. He was singing with joy inside - he had his band back, he had his passion back, and he had Armin with him to share in it all. That was why he cried so openly when they were done, not even hiding it, just expressing his sheer happiness and the relief he felt. 

They messed around playing for hours that night. Jean had never seen Bertholdt enjoy himself so much. He laughed more than he ever had and he looked free like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Reiner teased and flirted with him openly, not hiding a thing. Jean was both jealous and happy for them. Despite his break from music, Bertholdt played better than he ever had because he was playing for himself and nobody else. Reiner was as energetic and electric on the drums as ever, improvising all over the top of Jean’s notation in the exact way he hoped for. In the beginning, he had been scared that without Bertholdt and Reiner, the piece would never be enough. Even though the version for himself and Armin was emotional and something beautiful just for being theirs, hearing the piece the way Mr Arlert intended gave it a whole new meaning. It made Jean miss him so much, but even more, it made him wish that he and Armin could have known each other. 

When it became too late to play without keeping the whole street awake, Bertholdt and Reiner said their goodbyes and headed home to see to Gabi. By then, Armin was too tired to make dinner, so they ate toast on the sofa and forgot to worry about the crumbs. The gap between them narrowed as the minutes ticked by and they both became more and more sleepy. Armin looked exhausted, so Jean reached behind him for a blanket and let him take it. He was cute when he was tired - even cuter than usual. They sat there side by side, listening to records together, occasionally talking but mostly just enjoying the music. Stevie made his way over and sat on Jean’s lap, purring contentedly. 

“Jean,” Armin murmured. “Are you still awake?” 

“Mm,” Jean replied. “What’s up?”

Armin was silent for a moment before he spoke again. 

“Thank you,” he whispered. 

“Huh? What for?”

“Everything. For coming here, and helping me with all of his things, and teaching me the piano again, and… all of the composition stuff… I just…”

Armin trailed off, obviously emotional as he buried his face into the blanket. Jean frowned, put his hand on Armin’s back, and let him get it out. His shoulders were shaking as he cried; Jean let him without saying a word. 

“You don’t have to thank me,” Jean replied. “I should be the one thanking you, Ar. I thought you were insane for letting me come over here and play, but… you’re just a great guy. And now you’re looking after me when you didn’t have to, and… I don’t know. I don’t get why you think you need to thank me for any of this. It’s all you.”

“You’re so humble now,” Armin teased, sniffing. “What happened?”

“Shut up,” Jean bickered with him fondly, knocking into him. He didn’t pull his hand away from his back, even as Armin sat up again and got comfortable. “You happened.”

“So I get to take the credit?”

“Something like that.”

Neither of them commented on the fact that Jean’s arm was now around Armin’s shoulders. Jean’s heart was racing but he was so tired that it was a little easier to ignore it and focus on the heavy feeling in his limbs. Armin felt like he belonged there - he fit so perfectly. It felt so natural, the two of them and Stevie there on the sofa, sleepy and comfortable. Armin’s head fell to rest on Jean’s chest. Their breathing was slow and in sync. 

When the music stopped, Jean went to try and get up to put on another record but realised as he moved that Armin was asleep. He took a shaky breath in, his heart in his throat, and looked down at Armin’s face the best he could from the angle he was at. He was still wearing his glasses, hair strewn over his face. He had a freckle on his nose that Jean had never noticed before and he felt the strange urge to bend down and kiss it softly, but he didn’t. 

Jean wondered if he ought to wake Armin up, but something stopped him from doing so. He was so tired, and his room in the loft was so cold… maybe it was okay to let Armin rest here on him for the night. If he needed to Jean could just say he fell asleep without realising either. He couldn’t move that well with his leg the way it was anyway - it was best if they both went to sleep. 

Gently, Jean took Armin’s glasses off, folded them up, and put them down on the side table he could thankfully reach from where he was. Armin only shifted a little, burying his face deeper into Jean’s chest. Jean didn’t question what it meant or why it was happening - he just wanted to enjoy the moment while he was in it, and nothing more. Worrying was for later. Right now, he simply wanted to remember how it felt to lie under a blanket with Armin as he slept, after a night of playing music with his favourite people. 

If he were back at his mother’s, no doubt Jean would be lying alone under his blankets in his lonely room and wishing he were anywhere else but that silent house. Here the quiet was relaxing, comforting. There it felt empty. Maybe that was the difference between a house and a home, Jean thought - how it felt when it was quiet. 

Armin was warm and he slept soundly, breathing deeply in a gentle rhythm that Jean followed along with. His hair fell over his face and Jean tucked it behind his ear gently, slowly, making sure not to disturb him. The last thing he wanted was for Armin to wake up and insist they go and sleep in those separate beds. 

Sleep came slowly to Jean. A reluctance to move despite the cramping of his good leg kept him awake for a little while, but when Armin shifted slightly he was able to get comfortable again. Stevie slept in the small space between them, and eventually, Jean drifted off with one hand around Armin’s shoulders and the other stroking their cat.

* * *

After that night, Jean expected things to change. For better or worse, he wasn’t sure - but in his mind, there was no way such a moment could have failed to shift the dynamic between them. They would speak about it, surely, if not right away, then at  _ some  _ point.

He was wrong. 

Weeks went by and nothing felt any different. Jean and Armin still played together every single day, still touched hips at the keyboard, still ate breakfast and dinner together, and lunch, too, when Armin was off work. Jean learned to get around the kitchen and cook while using crutches and he often surprised Armin with meals already made when he came home in the evening. Armin came home with takeaway coffee and library books and a smile just for him. But they didn’t talk about the night they spent together on the sofa. Everything felt so wonderfully normal that sometimes Jean forgot it happened, but when Armin took off his glasses or tucked his hair behind his ears he was brought straight back to the memory of doing those things himself. 

Bertholdt and Reiner came over a lot, even more than they had when they were all playing regularly with Mr Arlert. They rehearsed until the three of them were perfect at all of their old favourite songs and until they knew the new composition by heart. Jean didn’t let them speak about his feelings for Armin, nor did he tell them about the night they fell asleep on the sofa. He insisted they focus on music, promising that he would do something about his desires after the music night. He claimed that it was because he wanted to give Armin the closure he deserved by playing that piece there, and that was part of it - but in all honesty, Jean was also scared of being told something he didn’t want to hear. Considering the possibility of rejection was too much for Jean while he still had to live in Armin’s house; he couldn’t stand the thought of it. 

Through the brief, curt conversations he had with his mother on the phone, Jean learned that she was staying with her sister again. Despite his bitter feelings, he was glad that she was alright, that she wasn’t all alone in that place that was good for nobody. It eased the guilt he felt for making the choice to go with Armin. His aunt lived in one of the other villages that dotted the coastline - she lived in a big bright house perched on a clifftop, painted yellow and full of animals. She had chickens and two huge dogs and no husband. His mother would be fine there - in fact, it would probably do her some good. 

Jean told Armin all about it, and Armin seemed happy too. Though Jean didn’t have the words to describe how much it meant to have someone who listened and cared, he was sure Armin knew just from the way he looked at him.

* * *

Winter dragged on through early March. It snowed a few more times, sticking just once for a day or so before it melted back into the drains. The rain brought a chill and greyness with it, but from inside his grandfather’s home, Armin couldn’t tell. His life had more colour than it had ever had, but still, he was scared.

By some miracle, Jean’s cast was due to come off the very night before they would drive down to the village to play together. As the date crept closer and closer the feeling of unease under Armin’s skin became harder to ignore. He thought about Jean leaving and he didn’t like it - he didn’t want to be alone in the house again. He had gotten so used to Jean being around for the last month that he didn’t feel like he belonged here without him. 

“Armin,” Reiner said, calling off the piece halfway through during their rehearsal one night, exactly one week before their performance. “What’s going on? You seem distracted.”

“Huh? Oh, I… sorry,” Armin said. “I lost track of my thoughts.”

“Typical Armin,” Jean interjected. “What’s up?”

“Nothing! Sorry. Let’s go again from the beginning.”

He was lying. There was so much on Armin’s mind that it was hard to concentrate at all - once they began to play again he was already thinking of other things. Not only was there the situation with Jean to worry about, but he also felt like an impostor. He wasn’t sure where it came from. But whenever Armin caught himself feeling so happy he could burst he wondered what he had done to deserve that joy, and from there he always spiralled. Who was he to be here, playing in his grandfather’s house with his grandfather’s instruments? The only thing that reminded him that maybe it was all okay was that the piece in itself was for  _ him. _

But even still, his worries remained, causing him to make sloppy mistakes that were usually out of character. He couldn’t lose himself to the music like normal. It just didn’t flow from him like it normally did. Despite knowing he was letting his fears get the better of him, Armin couldn’t seem to quell the thoughts that paralysed his body. 

When they finished playing for the night Armin felt the most insecure he had been in a long time. He just wanted to sleep, but he had to ask Reiner and Bertholdt for a favour. 

“Hey,” he said nervously, walking up to them as they were putting their shoes back on. 

“Hey,” Reiner replied. “You good?”

“Mm,” Armin said. “Can I ask one of you for a favour?”

“Depends what it is. What’s up?”

“Oh, um, I was just going to ask… Jean has to get his cast off next Friday, but I’m working at the time of the appointment. It’s at four o’clock… could either one of you go with him? I can take the day off or leave early if it’s too much trouble, I just-”

“I’m free,” Bertholdt said. “I work mornings.”

“Are you guys talking about me again?” Jean yelled from the living room. Armin heard the sound of his crutches hitting the floor as he made his way over. “Is this about my cast being taken off?” 

“Yeah,” Reiner said. “I’m off Friday, too. We could spend the evening together, pick Armin up from work…?”

“Actually,” Armin interjected. “You three go ahead. It’s the night before we play, so… I’ll probably just want to practise and rest.”

Jean frowned, but he didn’t look that put off. 

“Alright, if you say so,” he said. “You’ve always been the responsible one.”

* * *

The last week flew by until Friday stopped all momentum in its tracks. Armin took one last look at Jean in his cast before he set off for work, knowing that when he returned, Jean would be able to walk again, and wouldn’t need him. It stung but it was true and Armin had to face it before he did something stupid like beg him to stay. He was going to miss Jean in more ways than he could count, and he really, really didn’t want him to go. 

For the whole day at work, Armin was distracted. He couldn’t stop thinking about going home to an empty house. He was going to be all alone without Jean there to greet him with food and music and the heating already turned on. Just when it had started to feel like home, it was all going to be taken from him… He shook his head. Armin knew he was being dramatic but he couldn’t stop worrying. Jean wasn’t going to leave that night - he was only going to be gone for a little while, with his friends. They hadn’t even discussed what was going to happen after the show, but Armin assumed that Jean would just go back home to his mother’s house. Armin just didn’t want to ask so he couldn’t hate the answer. 

Petra let him off early. The sun wasn’t even fully set when Armin left for his walk back home, but he couldn’t see the colours of the sky from behind thick clouds. It was still freezing out, but Armin didn’t bother buying a hot chocolate on the way back. He just wanted to get this lonely feeling out of the way so he’d get used to it faster. 

The genuine relief Armin felt when Stevie greeted him at the door made him chuckle. His cat had become a greater source of comfort to him than he could ever explain, and he was so relieved that he’d interrupted Jean and him on the roof that night when it had snowed. Again, he wondered how he’d ever been nervous around the cat before - Stevie was so cute and so sweet. 

“I’m home,” he called and got a meow for an answer. It was so, so much better than silence. “Hi, Stevie.”

Stevie followed Armin into the living room and hopped up onto the spot on the sofa they saved just for him. Even though it was weird that Jean wasn’t there, it was still heartwarming to see his sax case on the coffee table and the music notation strewn about. Armin picked up his parts, knowing he needed to rehearse, and decided to take them into the dining room with him to play on the grand piano instead of the keyboard. 

The piece felt so much more lonely without the other instruments to give it fullness and life. Armin’s part was probably much more simple than his grandfather had intended - after all, this part was originally meant for him and  _ his _ expert skill - but Armin had to settle with his own ability and play the best he could. 

His grandfather. Being alone made Armin think of him more, made him question what his reaction might have been to all of this. Jean always insisted that he would have been proud. Armin wished he could have known the man, wished he could have met him just once so he could at least come up with some sort of conclusion by himself. He had only the words of others to drive his opinion of his grandfather, only words and -

His things. 

Trailing off mid-phrase, Armin stared down at his hands in shock as he realised that in all the time he’d been looking after Jean he had almost entirely forgotten about the mystery in those old records and photo albums and boxes he hadn’t the courage to touch since he found out about David. 

Maybe it would be okay now. The curiosity and desire to know hit him full force, and almost immediately Armin began rationalising, trying to convince himself that it would be okay to snoop through a dead man’s most personal things. Before he knew it, Armin was up and out of the room, climbing the stairs two at a time. He burst into his grandfather’s bedroom and was hit instantly by everything in there that was so  _ Jean. _ The box of reeds on the dresser, the clothes strewn messily over the back of the chair and on the floor, the scribbled-on sheets of music. 

None of those things were what he came in for, but when he took a moment to think, Armin remembered he’d moved all of the boxes into the office and backtracked quickly out of there. It felt more like he was encroaching on Jean’s space. When was he going to stop feeling like an impostor in his own home? Checking the time, Armin saw that he had a good few hours before Jean would probably get back, depending on how much fun he had with Reiner and Bertholdt. Knowing him, Armin thought, once he was able to walk properly again he wouldn’t want to do anything else. 

The boxes Armin hadn’t yet touched sat neatly just where he left them. There were two - one filled with photo albums and the other completely untouched and still sealed with tape, though writing on the side of the box told Armin it was filled with letters and journals. It was easy to choose where to begin - he just started where he left off before. 

“Alright… here we go,” Armin murmured as he sat down cross-legged on the floor in front of the box. At the very top were the two photo albums he’d looked through before - the first held photos of his grandfather’s childhood while the second was a lot more mysterious. The note on the inside cover of the photo album told Armin it was dedicated to a man named ‘David’, presumably the man in the pictures with the same name as the man his grandfather was buried next to. They were the same age, clearly close, and upon flicking through the rest of the pages he didn’t have the courage to before Armin was able to confirm to himself the suspicion he had that they were in fact lovers. 

It was a photograph of the two of them sitting on the pier together that did it. They sat looking out at the ocean, dressed up in thick winter coats and scarves, legs dangling over the water. David’s hand was subtly atop his grandfather’s, and his head rested on his shoulder. Armin felt like he knew that feeling. It spoke to him in a way he couldn’t describe, a part inside of him that was hidden to everyone but himself. He just saw it and knew that they loved each other. Maybe it was something only people like him could understand. 

He wondered if Jean understood it. 

Armin swallowed. He couldn’t keep thinking about Jean right now - he needed to focus. Pushing the thoughts from his mind the best that he could, Armin continued looking through the photo album. They were able to take many pictures. Armin felt his breath catch in his throat when he recognised Jean’s village, pastel shades of houses somehow still vibrant in black and white. David must have lived there, he thought. Just like Jean. 

The album ended while the pair were still seemingly in their early twenties. Armin frowned. When he thought about the age of his father and his grandfather, it meant his dad should definitely be born by then - but any trace of his grandmother was nowhere to be seen. Armin didn’t like the picture these puzzle pieces were forming. It made him feel uneasy. He didn’t want to be right, but he couldn’t stop without getting his answer. 

There were photos of friends and places Armin didn’t recognise, an entire life tied up and preserved in images. But then they stopped for years and years and didn’t start back up until after the war was over. Armin remembered the date on the headstone next to his grandfather’s and knew that if they were indeed the same David, that was when they had lost each other. The photographs were more scarce after that, sometimes out of order. 

Right at the very bottom of the box was another small album carefully wrapped in tissue paper. Armin braced himself for whatever was inside, and somehow, when he looked, was still shocked. 

They were baby photographs. Not of his father, like he would have presumed - but of  _ him.  _ Armin recognised his mother as she held him for professionally taken photographs he never knew had been taken. He felt himself start to cry, grief for his parents and the grandfather he’d never known welling up in his chest. And by the age of these photographs… he’d known about Armin since he was born. 

Sniffing, Armin wiped the tears from his eyes and moved onto the next box. He kept looking back to the picture of him and his mother from twenty-two years ago, wishing he could change things but knowing it was impossible. He found old school reports and certificates, letters from his old students. Armin learned that his grandfather became a teacher right after the war. Each letter from his students was adoring, thanking him for everything, some even stating that he was like a father to them. Was that how Jean felt? 

Tied together with string were a series of letters that Armin had a strange gut feeling about. The handwriting on the front of each of them was perfect, neat and elegant. Armin hummed, wondering suddenly if it was okay to open them. But even if the answer to that was no, Armin felt like he had to. 

He wished he hadn’t. 

Armin’s heart sank lower and lower as he read through the letters from his grandmother to his grandfather, ones that started off as pleading but ended up  _ angry. _ The story these letters pieced together for Armin was one he wished he’d never known. It changed everything. With each letter, Armin’s hands shook more and more. He was nervous, shocked, confused, but mostly… he felt incredibly, incredibly guilty.

* * *

Jean had never enjoyed walking quite so much in his entire life. Getting his cast off was complete freedom, and Jean was practically giddy all evening as he hung out with Reiner and Bertholdt at their place. They got takeout and watched TV, then walked down the long city centre streets chatting like they used to back at school. He had a bit of a limp, but it didn’t really even hurt any longer - he was almost completely back to normal. He hoped Armin was enjoying the time to himself back at home. Jean knew he was a bit of a loner, so he stayed out late even though, in all honesty, he was missing him. 

Jean whistled to himself as he walked back to Armin’s place after leaving Bertholdt and Reiner with the promise to see them tomorrow. He had the jittery excitement he always got when a show was approaching, one he couldn’t shake and didn’t want to, either. It tingled in his fingertips and had his heart racing every time he thought about it. Armin was going to be there, too… there with him in front of the small crowd. 

“I’m home!” he yelled when he got inside. It felt nice to say that for once instead of Armin being the one to call it out to him. 

“In the living room,” Armin replied. Jean stopped in his tracks. He couldn’t put his finger on what exactly it was, but he could feel that something was off with him. 

“Look at me,” Jean grinned, wiggling his left foot in the air at Armin. “I’m good as new.”

A thin smile stretched over Armin’s lips. 

“It went okay, then?”

“Yeah, it was fine. I gave them back my crutches and everything. Don’t need them anymore. And now we’re all good for tomorrow!”

“I’m glad,” Armin said quietly. 

Jean realised there was no music playing. 

“Ar… you’re good, right? Did something happen?”

“What? No! No, I’m fine. Sorry. It was just… a long day at work.”

“You’re nervous about tomorrow, huh.”

Armin didn’t meet his eyes. “...Yeah. Something like that.”

“Don’t be!” Jean encouraged. “You’ve got this, you know it. I promise you can do it.”

“You think so? It’s okay?”

“You know I think so, don’t be silly. Do you want to do some last-minute rehearsals, just us?”

“I… I actually just feel really tired,” Armin said. He was staring at the floor. “I might go to bed.”

“An early night. Good idea. Your grandfather always used to tell us to do that before a concert. Not that we ever listened, but…”

He was interrupted by a noise from Armin that sounded like pure hurt. 

“I’m - yeah. I’ll go to sleep. I’m glad your leg is okay.”

“Wait,” Jean said, grabbing his wrist as Armin went to rush past him. Armin looked back, and their eyes met. Jean felt a pang in his heart. 

“Jean, I…”

“This is just about nerves?”

Armin looked like he was going to say something, but he swallowed and then his expression changed. 

“Mm,” he hummed. “I’m just nervous, that’s all.”

Jean sighed with relief as he let go of Armin’s wrist. His hand felt empty afterwards. 

“Get some sleep, then.”

“I will. Goodnight, Jean.”

“Night, Armin.”


	20. Chapter 20

“Mum?” 

Jean was still half-asleep, leaning against the wall with the phone in his hand, spiral cord wrapped around his finger. He concealed a yawn with the back of his hand. With dark circles and hair still messed up from restless sleep, Jean didn’t look or feel his best. The sun was rising earlier and earlier in the day - Jean saw its glow from behind the frosted glass at the top of the front door. 

“Jean,” his mother said. She didn’t sound as tired as she normally did. “I just got back to the house last night.”

“You’re up early, then.” 

“I got used to it,” she hummed. “Do you know the sunrise looks great from the kitchen?”

Jean did know. He saw it most mornings when he was still there while getting ready for work. She used to sleep until the afternoon and never open the curtains. He was glad she seemed a little better - it seemed that staying with her sister had really been a benefit. That didn’t mean he knew what to say to her.

“Mm,” he agreed. “Yeah.”

There was an awkward silence. 

“How is your leg?” 

“Why, you want to get me back to work?” Jean asked bitterly. He didn’t mean to say it - his hurt just came out.

“No,” his mother snapped right back. “I was - I was just asking.”

“Oh. Well, I… it’s fine now. I just got the cast off last night.”

“Are you coming home?” 

_ Home?  _

Jean looked down the hall into the kitchen and felt like he already  _ was. _

“I’m coming to the village this evening,” he said cautiously, realising that he hadn’t even talked with Armin about what they were going to do now he could properly walk again.

“Why?”

“We’re playing tonight,” Jean said. “At the pub.”

“‘We’?”

“Yeah. Me, Bert and Reiner. And Armin.”

“That’s the grandson.”

“Yes.”

“...Right.”

“Do you have a problem with that?” 

He heard her sigh. 

“No, Jean. You’re… you’re a grown man. You can make your own choices.”

Jean gripped the phone a little tighter and felt his stomach twist with some unknown feeling when he finally got to hear the words he’d been wanting her to say for so long. Maybe, he thought, the time apart was what they had needed more than anything. 

It wasn’t an apology, but it was a start. 

“Thanks,” he murmured. “I’ll… I’ll stop by tonight.”

“Okay.”

“See you then, Mum.”

They hung up the phone, and Jean looked up, surprised to see Armin at the bottom of the stairs. 

“I’m sorry,” Armin said quickly, looking both exhausted and guilty. “I didn’t mean to listen in.”

“You’re fine, don’t worry so much,” Jean reassured him. “It’s your house.”

Armin frowned and Jean wondered if he’d said something wrong. 

“Want a cup of coffee?” Armin asked, turning around like he was trying to hide his face. Jean felt the same weird energy between them that was so uncomfortably there last night. 

“Sure.”

“How’s being back on your leg?”

“Amazing. Weird too, though. I reached for my crutches this morning and realised I didn’t need them.”

Armin chuckled humourlessly as he reached for their mugs sat side by side on the draining board. The approaching performance was the elephant in the room Jean decided to address, biting the bullet. 

“So, tonight,” he said, but was instantly interrupted. 

“Was that your mum?” Armin asked. From his tone of voice, it was like he hadn’t heard Jean speak at all. 

“Yeah. She’s back at the house now.”

“Did she apologise?”

“In her own way,” Jean sighed.

“Does that mean no?”

“Pretty much,” Jean chuckled. “She does seem better, though… I’m relieved.”

“Me too.”

The kettle boiled, and Jean stared at the back of Armin’s head, wishing he could see his expression. Armin didn’t turn around; he just poured the kettle. 

“Want to play for a little while? We have plenty of time before we have to go.” 

“Now?” Armin asked. “I, um… give me a little while.”

“You good?”

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m just… still waking up.”

“Right. Yeah. Just let me know.”

“Will do. Here - your coffee.”

“Thanks,” Jean said. Hot drinks always tasted better when Armin made them; that was something else he was going to miss. He could never make them taste as good. “Oh, uh… my mum asked if I was going back there now.”

“Back to her house…?” Armin asked. He had his back turned again, but Jean could hear that he was struggling to speak. “Are you going to?”

“I guess so,” Jean shrugged. As much as he wanted to beg Armin to let him stay, he didn’t want to put him in that uncomfortable situation. 

“Oh,” Armin said. “Okay. But you know you’re always welcome here.”

He sounded guilty. Jean’s unease grew - something was wrong, more than just nerves. 

“Like that’s ever stopped me,” he said, pushing that aside for now. If he acted weird it would probably push Armin further back into his shell. 

Armin smiled and rolled his eyes. “I’m going to go get ready.”

“See you in a bit.”

* * *

After they both showered, dressed and ate breakfast, Armin and Jean had their final practise together before that evening. As beautifully as Armin played, Jean could tell he was distracted. He kept staring into space, seemingly deep in thought about something he didn’t want to share. He tried to focus on his own playing but that only got harder as his curiosity grew. Armin had assured him that it was just nerves, and Jean believed him last night. Now, he was certain of the opposite. 

They played for a couple of hours. Jean insisted that a good amount of rest was needed before a performance and that practising all day would only lead to them being too exhausted and burnt out to play well that night. He told Armin about the others that were performing, like Sasha and a few of the same people as last time, along with some new faces. He’d organised everything over the phone which had been annoying - Jean was definitely grateful that his leg was back and working almost perfectly again. His slight limp would hopefully be gone soon. 

Bertholdt and Reiner arrived after lunch. It was going to take them two trips to get both the double bass and the drum kit to the village, so they had to pack everything up early. Jean laughed and joked with them while Armin kept his distance. His strange behaviour only got worse while they were there, barely talking to their friends at all, just silently returning the living room to its usual state. 

When they were done, Reiner and Bertholdt left with the promise to meet them there later. The living room looked strangely empty once again. Even though they worked so hard that December to try and fix the place up and organise all of Mr Arlert’s things, seeing the room returned to that normalcy after seven weeks of music chaos felt weird. It really marked to Jean that he was leaving and going back to his mother’s house, and he didn’t like it at all. He didn’t want to leave Armin alone purely out of his own selfishness. 

Really, he thought, he was the one that didn’t want to be alone again.

* * *

Jean like to dress up just a little bit for these things. All of his favourite musicians had a cool, attractive aura, and it was one he wanted to emulate. He wore his favourite shirt and slicked his hair back, making sure he looked good before meeting Armin by the door. For some reason, he had expected Armin to wear the same kind of outfit he always did. Armin always preferred comfort over style, never caring much about his appearance, but tonight he looked… different. Good different. 

“Hey,” he said, forgetting all his worries when he saw Armin waiting for him by the door in an outfit he would never have expected to see on him. He was wearing a striped blue t-shirt half-tucked into jeans with an open shirt over it; he looked almost androgynous in a way that made Jean’s heart race. His hair was half tied up at the back with his fringe still sitting just above his glasses. 

“Hey,” Armin replied. He looked a little bit uncomfortable. “About the outfit-”

“You look good,” Jean blurted out. He could never hold back his thoughts when Armin was right there looking like some sort of model. He had always thought Armin was cute, but this was something else.

“You think so? I wasn’t sure… Bertholdt helped me pick it out.”

“You didn’t tell me?”

“I knew you’d make me wear it and I hadn’t made up my mind yet.”

“I’m glad you did,” Jean murmured, looking him up and down again. Armin’s eyes were fixed onto him, too. 

“You look good too,” he said quietly. “I like your hair like that.”

“Thanks.” Jean grinned, poking him in the shoulder. “Now come on. We should head off.”

The sun was setting when they got into the car, turning the sky pink behind the clouds. Jean was driving; he wanted every opportunity to use his now-healed leg for the things he couldn’t do. 

“I told my mum I’d stop by her place,” he said, turning off their street to make the journey to the village. “Are you cool to hang with Bertholdt and Reiner a little bit while I do that? I won’t be that long.”

“Oh,” Armin said. “Yeah, that’s fine. Are you sure it’s going to be okay? I can come with you if you want.”

“No, you’re good. I won’t need your help to run away this time,” Jean chuckled. “I should be fine to do it all by myself.”

Armin laughed in the way he always did when Jean was being silly. He waited for him to say anything else, but Armin just looked out of the window, watching grey houses pass by. He really was so pretty; from the side, Jean could see the perfect shape of his button nose and the slight roundness to his jaw. He had such long eyelashes, such soft-looking lips, such pretty blue eyes. Even though he was pouting a little bit Jean still thought he was beautiful. He wanted to touch him - the urge was always there under his skin, but as Jean kept stealing glances at every long stretch of road and every red light, he felt it spreading through him. He wanted to just put his hand on his thigh or touch his cheek and many, many other forbidden things. But he didn’t. 

Any confession or move could wait to be made until after their performance. This was so incredibly important that Jean couldn’t stand the thought of messing it up in any way. It had to be perfect and go off without a hitch. He owed that moment to Armin after everything he had done to help him. Jean’s feelings had waited patiently for this long - they could surely stand to last one more night. Maybe then Jean would burst and tell him everything no matter the consequences. It was better than waiting forever - on the slim chance his feelings were returned, Jean was doubtful that Armin would make the first move. 

The radio kept them company and filled their silence for the rest of the drive. Jean parked up next to Bertholdt’s car, smiling a little when he remembered seeing it outside his house the day he had come to make amends. 

“They’ll be in there already,” Jean said, getting his saxophone out of the back while Armin waited beside him. “Do you want to go on ahead while I get this over and done with?” 

“Okay. Shall I take your sax?”

“Oh, please.” 

Armin took the case and they nodded to each other before walking in opposite directions. Jean walked backwards just so he could watch Armin turn the corner, then picked up the pace back home. It was dark outside when he got there, but he could see the curtains open and the orange glow of light coming from the living area. How long had it been since he’d seen the house like that? 

Hesitating for just a second, Jean opened the door and waited with bated breath for the moment he saw his mother again. 

“Jean?” 

Jean heard her voice and felt a little bit like crying, but he didn’t know why. As she walked into the hallway, Jean felt regret for all the things that he wished could have been. 

“Mum,” he said. “I’m back.”

She just walked up to him and without saying another word, pulled him in for a tight hug. Jean felt the air knocked out of his lungs from her embrace and the sheer surprise of it. Standing there with his arms at his sides, he didn’t know what to do at first, but after a moment he reached up and hugged her back, clenching his jaw as he tried to hold back his emotions. 

“I found the guitar,” she said quietly. Jean froze, tensing up.  _ Fuck, _ he thought. 

“Did you get rid of it?!” He pulled back, terrified. Even though he hated the man, that guitar was all he had left of his father. 

“No! No, I - I left it. It’s yours.” 

“Oh.”

“It’s still in your wardrobe,” she said. “Do you play it?”

“Mm,” Jean said. 

“You never told me.”

“You would have destroyed it.”

There was a long silence. They both knew he was right. 

“I won’t now,” she said.

“I know.”

“It’s yours. Not his.”

“I know.”

She reached out and squeezed his shoulder. 

“Come into the kitchen. I need to talk to you about something.”

Jean sat down at the table while she put the kettle on. He had the feeling she was trying to keep her hands busy. Outside, the ocean rolled in gently. The clouds were clearing, and Jean could see the stars. It was cleaner inside, too, like a great deal of work had been put into the place for the first time in a long time. 

“I’m selling the house.”

Jean wasn’t sure he heard her right. Much like his guitar was all he had left of his father, this house was all his mother had left of her marriage. Perhaps that was why it needed to go. But even still he couldn’t believe that after all these years she was finally making the choice that so desperately needed to be made. 

“Are you serious?”

She nodded and started to talk about her time at her sister’s place while Jean was with Armin. 

“The whole time there I tried to convince myself that when I got back it would be a new beginning, but…” 

She trailed off. Jean could still see how tired she looked. Things weren’t all better, but this was a start. 

“I think it’s a good idea,” he said. “I really do.”

“I’ll stay with your aunt again for a while when we sell. Will you come?” 

Jean thought about Armin and what might happen after their performance. 

“I… maybe.”

“You’d rather stay with him,” she said. 

“If you’d be okay. And if he wants me to.”

“It seems like he cares about you very much.”

“I… I like to think so.”

* * *

It was much colder outside after Jean left, but he didn’t mind. He felt like this night was the start of something truly good for him, that everything would soon work out. Now that his mother was finally selling the house, after giving Armin the closure he deserved Jean believed he would feel content. Maybe, if everything went well, Armin would invite him to stay for a longer period of time. 

The warmth of the pub was intoxicating. Jean looked around at the familiar faces and thought that home could be many different places all at once. By the old piano sat the drum kit and Bertholdt’s double bass. Jean really couldn’t wait to get up there himself. A lone singer stood at the mic with a guitar - he looked older than the village itself but Jean thought it was charming. He hoped he’d still be playing at that age. 

Pushing through the crowded space, Jean found Bertholdt, Reiner, and Armin sitting around one of the small, round tables. Reiner was the only one drinking; Jean wasn’t surprised. He grinned when they saw they’d saved him a seat next to Armin, and sat down before someone could steal his spot. 

“Hey,” he said cheerfully, in his absolute element once again. He felt light and warm, a weight lifted off his shoulders now that he knew his mother was going to be alright and that they both had a future fast approaching. 

“Jean!” Reiner smiled. “Took your time, didn’t you?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Jean replied. “My mum’s back, I dropped in to see her.”

“How was it?” 

“Big news. I’ll explain later. How’s it going here? Did I miss anything special?”

“Sasha’s playing before us, that’s all I know,” Reiner told him.

“Oh, good. I wouldn’t want to miss her.”

“You know Bert used to think you fancied her?” 

“Reiner!” Bertholdt exclaimed. “Don’t tell him that!”

“It’s funny, why can’t I?”

“Sasha?” Jean asked. “I just think she’s a great musician.”

“Yeah, we know that  _ now _ ,” Reiner winked. 

“ _ Reiner _ ,” Bertholdt warned, but Reiner just laughed. 

Jean, realising that Armin was even quieter than usual, turned to his friend with concern on his face. 

“What’s going on?” he murmured, leaning in close to speak privately with him.

“Nothing,” Armin whispered back. Jean knew he was lying but he didn’t know how to call him out on it without making him even more defensive. 

“You can tell me.”

Armin just shook his head. Jean’s chest felt tight and uncomfortable.

“I’m just… I’m nervous. Everyone here is so talented.”

“Yeah, they are,” Jean said. “But so are you.”

“Not like them,” Armin said quietly. “Not like you.”

“Don’t be silly. You deserve to be here.”

That seemed to make Armin even worse because he tensed up entirely, closing in on himself physically and emotionally. If they weren’t surrounded by a crowd of people, Jean would have uncurled each of Armin’s fingers clenched into a fist and squeezed his hand for reassurance - but the best he could do was rub his shoulder once. The upbeat song playing from the makeshift stage didn’t match the mood he felt when seeing Armin so upset. 

“I’m sorry,” Armin whispered. Jean could somehow hear him over the music and all the conversations around them. 

“You don’t have to be,” Jean replied. “Just tell me how I can help.”

“It’s okay,” Armin said, but all Jean heard was  _ ‘you can’t’.  _ His good mood was fading fast, replaced by worry. 

Bertholdt and Reiner carried the conversation as the next few musicians took over. There was a duo of nervous teen girls, a mother Jean saw around often who had a surprisingly beautiful voice, and a few kids playing with their father that made all four of them tense. Out of the corner of his eye, Jean saw Reiner comforting Bertholdt but he pretended not to notice. Armin looked… guilty. 

“I - I need to take a moment outside,” Armin gasped as the man walked off with twin girls in his arms, Sasha about to take his place. 

“Don’t be long, okay?” Jean told him. “We’re on in ten minutes.”

Armin just nodded. He looked like he was about to throw up, and quickly excused himself, hurrying off through the crowd. 

“Okay, so what the hell is going on?” Reiner asked, leaning in close to Jean. “Did something happen? You didn’t make a move on him, did you?”

“Of course I didn’t,” Jean insisted. “He’s been acting like this since last night.”

“Maybe he’s just nervous,” Bertholdt suggested. 

“That’s what he promised me. But… I don’t know. I feel like he’s lying.”

“He was really awkward while you were gone,” Reiner told Jean. “Kept staring at the door like he wanted to run.”

The conversation died for a moment as Sasha began to introduce herself. Jean smiled up at her and gave her a thumbs-up, which she returned. As her fingers plucked the strings the murmur of everyone talking started back up again. It wasn’t rude - it had always been custom at these nights to talk and sing and all enjoy the music together. The silent atmosphere didn’t suit them at all. Jean found it was much more enjoyable that way. 

But he couldn’t focus on anything but Armin. As the minutes ticked by, the situation felt more and more  _ wrong, _ especially when Sasha was midway through her set and there was still no sign of Armin. Between songs, he looked up at her with an expression which told her, hopefully, that she might have to go over and play some more. She nodded. 

“I’m going to go and find him,” Jean said. “I can’t just sit here.” 

“Good idea,” Bertholdt replied, reaching out just for a second to put a hand on his arm. “Go now.”

Without another word, Jean was off. He hoped to find Armin just waiting outside, but of course, it wasn’t that easy - he was nowhere to be seen. There were a few girls lounging around at the picnic tables, smoking and laughing together.

“Excuse me,” he interrupted. “Have you seen a blonde guy around here? About this tall?” 

“With glasses?” One of the women said. “Quite cute?”

“Y-yeah.”

“That way.” She pointed at the path that led to the beach. Jean felt stupid; he should have known. 

Yelling his thanks behind him, Jean took off, jogging down the path until the ocean came into view and so did Armin. He was standing at the water’s edge, skimming stones along the surface, sending each one flying. Jean watched him for just a second before he was off, speeding up because he needed Armin back. He had wanted this for so long, had been so desperate to give himself and Armin the closure they deserved by playing the song they had written  _ together _ in honour of the man who meant so much to them in such different ways. 

“Armin!” he called. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

The freezing wind blew into their faces from the ocean, carrying the cold with it; as Armin turned around, his hair obscured his expression. But, as Jean ran closer, limping a little from his leg and the sand, he could see that the boy he loved so much was crying. 

“I’m sorry,” he called back, wiping his eyes and running over to meet him. 

“What’s going on?” Jean asked. “We’re supposed to be on right now.”

“I can’t do it.”

“I don’t understand. Are you really this nervous? Because that’s ridiculous, I  _ know  _ you have talent-”

“It’s not that,” Armin interrupted tearfully. 

“Then what is it?” 

“I… I can’t say.”

“What do you mean you can’t say?” Jean asked. “Don’t - don’t you trust me?”

Armin looked like he was crumbling in on himself, breaking. 

“Of course I trust you,” he choked out. “I - I just don’t want to hurt you.”

“I don’t understand. Just tell me what this is about so I can  _ help  _ you, Ar. That’s all I want.”

They were alone on the beach, both so quiet they could hear Sasha’s voice coming from the pub as she extended her set. Armin sat down on the sand and pulled his knees up to his chest. Jean sat down beside him and reached over, tucking a stray lock of blonde hair behind Armin’s ear. He let his thumb linger on his cheek and smiled. 

“Jean…”

“It’s okay. I just want to help.”

“I just don’t want this to change things between us.”

“It won’t.”

“You can’t promise that,” Armin whispered. 

“Yes, I can. I’m promising it right now.” 

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Jean held out his hand, forgetting everything. He just wanted Armin to feel better. “Shake on it.”

Armin smiled, huffing out a laugh through his tears, and took his hand. 

“...Okay. I’ll explain.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armin confesses, in more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SbenaOqv4yQ
> 
> i hope you enjoy <3

Armin’s hand felt small in Jean’s. 

Armin felt small in general, crushed under the weight of worry and guilt and fear that this would mark the end of them. They didn’t have much time. If, after this, Jean still wanted to perform with him, they would be cutting it very close. Armin took a deep breath in time with the ocean rolling in towards their feet and squeezed Jean’s hand, trying not to choke on the words he was so afraid to say. 

“Please just tell me,” Jean said, squeezing back. “Whatever it is, I want to know what’s got you this upset.”

“Just don’t be mad at me.”

“I really doubt that’s going to happen.”

The tide was coming in, creeping up the beach. Armin breathed slowly again and leaned a little closer to Jean as they sat together watching the water get closer.

“When you were getting your cast taken off yesterday, I… took a look through my grandfather’s things.”

“Is that it?”

“No, I, um… I found out a lot of things we didn’t know before.”

Armin swallowed when he thought about the stack of letters he found. 

“Did you finish looking through those photo albums?” Jean asked. Armin nodded. “So, was that man from before… his boyfriend?”

“Mm.”

“Is that what you’re so worked up about? Come on, Armin, we already talked about this. You said yourself it’s just a different kind of love, right? So if that’s it, then hurry up, because we need to get back-”

“He abandoned my grandmother,” Armin blurted out. He couldn’t stand to hold it in any longer but he couldn’t face Jean, either. He just stared at their fingers locked together and wondered how long he had left until Jean pulled away. “He… he got her pregnant but he wouldn’t marry her. He left her all alone to be with David.”

Armin didn’t look at Jean’s expression but he felt the way he gripped on tighter to his hand. Was it out of anger?

“Oh,” Jean whispered. 

“I found the letters she sent him,” Armin replied back, just as quiet. “Begging him to marry her so she wouldn’t have to do it all on her own. He kept them. I don’t know why he kept them…”

“That baby… that was your dad?”

“Mm,” Armin hummed, feeling tears welling up in his eyes. 

“Fuck,” Jean breathed. “Oh, fuck. That hurts. Why does that hurt so much…”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Jean.”

The guilt had been eating him alive ever since he found out. Bertholdt, Jean, and Reiner - they didn’t have a father figure or someone like that to care for them. They had to face the feeling of being abandoned and take it in stride, finding their own comfort. Jean, Armin knew, found that comfort in his grandfather. He even said it himself - Mr Arlert was like a father to all three of them. 

“Keep going,” Jean murmured. “I know you didn’t stop there.”

“He and David stayed together for a long time,” Armin said. “Until… until the war. I don’t know if you noticed, but… I think my grandfather is buried next to him.”

“I didn’t know,” Jean said softly. 

“That’s when he became a music teacher. I found so many letters from his old students saying how much he helped them… I didn’t know what to think… and then I read -”

Armin choked up so much he couldn’t speak anymore. Jean let go of his hand but only to rub his back. Armin still didn’t look at him. 

“Go on,” Jean whispered.

“I found all the letters he wrote to my dad.”

“Wouldn’t your dad have those?”

“He sent them all back.” 

“...Oh.”

“But I can’t blame my father, I’m sure -”

“I would have done the same,” Jean said. “If my father wrote to me… I would send the letters back too.”

“I know,” Armin said quietly, tears falling down his face. “I know you would.”

“What did the letters say?”

“They were regretful. It seemed like he was sorry, that he wanted to make amends. I don’t think my father ever opened them…”

“Fuck,” Jean said again. His voice cracked like he was about to cry. It was Armin’s turn to rub his back in a small gesture of comfort. Jean wasn’t running from him. He was staying right there by his side. 

“And I feel so guilty. I didn’t want to tell you because I knew… I knew how much he meant to you. It’s not fair…” he said. “It’s not fair, and I didn’t know what to do. To play his song like that after he did the same thing that hurt the three of you so badly…”

Finally, Armin looked over at his face. Jean looked so sad that he couldn’t stand it. He was crying, tears on his cheeks that Armin so desperately wanted to brush away but couldn’t because he was frozen there just looking. He hated the way Jean’s bottom lip was quivering and how his jaw was clenched shut like he was trying to hold it back. Jean took a deep breath before 

“Armin, I-”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, listen. What - what he did isn’t your fault.”

“You should be angry at me,” Armin whispered. “Yell at me. Get angry, just - just don’t _forgive_ this like it’s nothing-”

“What’s the use in being angry at _you?”_ Jean asked. They looked at each other, both with tear-stained faces and red cheeks. “What did you do wrong? Tell me.”

“I lied to you.”

“Because you were trying to protect my feelings.”

“And now look what happened. I hurt you.”

“No, you didn’t,” Jean said, reaching out. “You’ve never hurt me.”

“But…”

“No buts. I mean it.”

“Aren’t you upset?”

“Of course I am,” Jean murmured. “I… I’m heartbroken, a little bit. But it doesn’t change what he did for me. And he - growing up back then and being in love with a man… it must have been even harder back then. And it’s hard _now_.”

“Are you talking about Reiner and Bertholdt?” Armin asked. The way Jean was looking at him made him think otherwise, made his heart beat fast in a conflict of emotions - but he had to be sure. He couldn’t react on instinct.

“No,” Jean whispered. 

They were staring at each other. 

“I… have that in common with my grandfather too,” Armin admitted. Just like that night on the roof when it had snowed on them, Armin didn’t feel cold at all. The chill from the wind blowing in over the winter ocean was more like a springtime breeze. And Jean was so, so beautiful with his hair blowing out of his face and his eyes shining with tears and something else, too. Something like hope.

“You do?”

“Mm.”

“Come here, then,” Jean murmured, and then, before Armin could realise what was happening, Jean was pulling him close and kissing him. It happened so fast that Armin was frozen for a moment but it didn’t take long before he melted into his touch, reaching up to wipe the tears from Jean’s cheek as they kissed. Jean tasted like the lime soda water from the pub and he smelled like hair gel and something so uniquely _Jean_ that Armin couldn’t describe it. Only a few seconds passed but Armin had never been so overwhelmed. In his chest Armin’s joy felt like music - like playing together in the living room or listening to Jean on the roof and singing together in a boat sat out on the ocean. It was perfect.

“Jean…” he whispered in disbelief as they pulled back. When confessing his discovery a kiss was the last thing he’d expected. 

“It can be our song,” Jean said, tilting his head forwards so their foreheads were pressed together, his strong hand cupping Armin’s cheek. Their noses brushed together. “Despite my own feelings about his past… he gave me music, and he brought me to you. I’ll always be grateful for that. I have to thank him for the song he gave to us.”

“It’s ours,” Armin repeated. Disbelief was all he could feel past the elation. “It’s ours.”

Jean got to his feet and held out his hand to help Armin up. 

“So let’s go and perform it.”

* * *

Sasha was still singing when they made it back to the pub. It was still crowded. Immediately, Armin picked out Reiner and Bertholdt looking confused and a little annoyed at the table where they left them earlier. He rushed over while Jean grabbed his sax from the back room. His heart was still pounding, blood rushing through his ears, in shock that Jean had really _kissed_ him. How was that real? How could someone as perfect as Jean want him in such a way?

“Where the hell did you go?” Reiner asked, raising an eyebrow. “Did you chicken out?”

Armin swallowed as he looked at the two, but looked at them earnestly. 

“No, I’m - I’m here,” he said. “I’m ready to play.”

“What happened?” Bertholdt asked. 

“I… found out some things about my grandfather’s past. Why he was never a part of my father’s life.”

“What things?” Reiner said. 

“I’ll… I’ll explain it all in more detail when I have the time, but - the short version is that he abandoned my grandmother when she was pregnant. And I know that it’s a sensitive subject for you both. I won’t ask you to play with us. I don’t want to force your hand, but -”

“Armin,” Bertholdt interrupted. Armin looked up at him and saw the sadness but acceptance on his face. “I’m here because I have fun playing music with you all. I want to do this.”

“Me too,” Reiner nodded. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Armin’s eyes filled with tears again as he felt a warm, familiar hand on his shoulder. 

“What are we waiting for, then?” Jean grinned, holding his sax in one hand. He looked so perfect, Armin thought. So gorgeous. “We’re up.”

Armin looked at him and felt so reassured by Jean’s perfect smile. He nodded, lost in the moment for a few seconds, not noticing the look shared between Reiner and Bertholdt as they realised the way their relationship had changed. 

Sasha gave Jean a bewildered look as she finished up her extended set, but he just waved his hand to say he’d explain later. They replaced her quickly and easily. Jean stood at the mic with his sax, and Armin sat with his back to him and the crowd. He was grateful to not have to see anything but his hands pressing the keys. Looking at Jean would only distract him, especially when his kiss still tingled against his lips. Bertholdt and Reiner shared a grin as they set up. It seemed like they had missed this just as much as Jean. 

“We’ll be playing just one song,” Jean spoke into the mic like he was born for it. “It’s one we wrote ourselves.”

The curious attention of the bar focused on them. Armin could feel eyes on his back and tried to shift the uncomfortable feeling. It was difficult at first, but once he heard Reiner’s drumsticks click as he counted them in the feeling washed away like water pulled back into the ocean. His hands began to move as the familiar slow melody began. There was something so different about this. It was the same piece he knew, the same piece he had worked so hard on; but the atmosphere changed everything, turned the tune into the apology his grandfather never had the chance to give him. 

Not even a minute passed before Armin’s vision became so blurry that he couldn’t tell the white keys from the black ones. Led by Jean’s saxophone, though, Armin knew where to move his hands from memory, and he turned back to make out Jean’s shape at the microphone. As if he knew, Jean turned back also, and as Armin blinked the tears from his eyes their gaze focused on each other and they both broke out into a smile. Jean looked so proud of him. Despite everything, Armin hoped that his grandfather would be proud of him, too. He hoped he would like his music. 

Jean did. Jean really, truly did. And that felt like enough. 

Armin forgot about the crowd and his worries and let himself feel the pure joy in his chest. He loved this. He loved writing music, and he loved playing it, especially with the friends he’d never expected to make. He didn’t play perfectly but it felt like theirs. With Reiner’s steady, perfectly timed drumming in time with Bertholdt on bass, Armin found it easy to follow and make the chords and countermelodies to complement Jean’s playing. Immersed completely, Armin didn’t notice that almost every conversation around them had died and that the crowd’s attention was on them. It was only when they finished together that Armin heard himself sniffle in the brief silence before the whole village erupted into cheers and applause. He stood up and turned in disbelief only to see Jean shining brightly in front of him, beaming like the sun, making Armin feel warm all over. 

“You did it,” Jean said to him, smiling even wider. 

“We did it,” Armin replied. 

“Fuck yeah we did,” Jean grinned. “Come on.” 

Armin felt himself blushing from head to toe as Jean thanked the crowd. He held onto Jean’s sleeve as he led them outside and into the cold air with Reiner and Bertholdt. All Armin could think about was when he might get to kiss Jean again, but it was impossible while there were still other people around them. 

“That was amazing,” Bertholdt breathed. 

“It was perfect!” Jean beamed, taking Armin’s hands like they were alone. “You were perfect.”

“Hey, wasn’t I perfect too?” Reiner teased. 

“Everyone was,” Armin said softly. “That was the most fun I’ve ever had…”

“Are we a band again?” Jean asked. He looked up at Bertholdt and Reiner like he was pleading with them. 

“I’d like that,” Bertholdt smiled. “I’d like that very much.”

“Same,” Reiner said. “It’d be great. When we all have the time, that is.”

“Just give me a call,” Jean grinned, “and I’ll be there.”

Jean was still holding onto Armin’s hands; as he spoke, he squeezed them and Armin blushed. When he let go Armin wanted only to grab them again and feel the warmth of his touch. 

“But what’s going on with you two-” Reiner started but was quickly interrupted by Jean. 

“Later,” he promised. “We’ve got a couple of hours before we have to pack up. What are you guys going to do?”

“I’d like to watch some more,” Bertholdt smiled. “It’s freezing out here, so…”

“Yeah, it is,” Reiner said. “What about you guys?”

“I have something I want to show Armin,” Jean said confidently. 

“I bet you do,” Reiner grinned.

“Fuck off, Reiner. We’ll meet you back here at midnight?”

“Midnight sounds great.”

“Cool. See you then.”

Armin gave them a little wave goodbye as Jean walked away from the music of the bar. He followed quickly, his heart pounding relentlessly from everything that had happened in the last hour. 

“Where are we going?” he asked breathlessly, having to jog to keep up with Jean’s long strides.

“Back to my mum’s quickly,” Jean said. “There’s something I need to get. Then I’m taking you to my favourite spot out here.” 

“Okay,” Armin breathed. He trusted him completely. “Is it somewhere we’ll be alone?”

“Of course. I couldn’t stand to be anywhere else.”

Armin’s heart felt like it was going to burst, but he followed Jean along diligently. When they got to his mother’s house, he stood shivering by the door, waiting outside while Jean got whatever he needed to get. He looked up at the patches of sky the clouds didn’t cover, counting the stars until the door opened. 

“Jean-” he started, but when he looked over, it wasn’t Jean there meeting his gaze. 

It was his mother. 

“You must be Armin,” she said. Armin didn’t know what to say - he just stared wide-eyed, wondering if somehow she knew that he’d kissed her son less than an hour before. 

“Y-yeah,” he said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You must have a terrible impression of me,” she sighed. She looked tired, Armin thought.

“No-”

“It’s okay. Before he comes back down, I - I wanted to give you my thanks.”

Armin didn’t know why, but that was the last thing he’d expected to hear.

“Your thanks?”

“For looking after him,” she said. “I was... unfit to do so. I think I still am.”

“O-oh.” Armin felt incredibly awkward. “It was fine for me… I would do it again.”

“I’m glad. Jean -”

“Mum?!” Jean himself interrupted. Armin heard him running down the hallway before he saw him. His face was bright red. 

“Sorry,” she laughed. “Sorry. I was just saying thank you to your friend.”

“My… yeah. Well, I’m going now!” 

“Are you staying with him tonight?” 

“Yeah,” Jean insisted, squeezing by her and out into the nighttime again. It was only then that Armin noticed the acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder, and he blinked. He had no idea Jean could play the guitar - then again, he shouldn’t have been surprised. It seemed like there was nothing Jean couldn’t do, no instrument he couldn't make beauty with. 

“Alright,” Jean’s mother said. She smiled at Armin. “I’ll have to ask you to look after him for one more night.”

“That - that’s fine!”

“Better be,” Jean grinned at him, flirtatiousness in his expression that sent Armin reeling. 

Waving goodbye, they set off again, Jean walking even faster than before. 

“You’re staying over again?”

“Do you not want me to?” 

“No! No, I… I always want you to.”

“Good.”

“Where are we going?” 

“You’ll see.” 

“And what’s with the guitar?”

“You’ll _see,”_ Jean laughed. They turned a corner out of the village, heading down a narrow grass bank that led to the beach. The tide was out and there was nobody around. Even the music from the bar was too far away to be heard; the quiet nighttime felt like theirs and theirs only. “So impatient.”

“You’re being confusing.”

“Shh,” Jean smiled. “We’re alone now, so…” 

With that, he grabbed Armin’s hand, squeezing gently. 

“Jean… about earlier…” 

“What about earlier?”

“Are - are we not going to talk about it?” 

“What is there to say”

“Um - I just mean -” Armin blushed deeply as Jean brushed his thumb across the side of his hand. “It’s…”

“It’s what? Did you not like it?”

“No, that was - it was the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Me too,” Jean said. “What more is there to say?”

Jean led Armin over the rockpools, carefully climbing in the dark until they passed over onto the other side, where there was a much smaller, hidden beach surrounded by tall cliffs that obscured any view of it from the village. All that could be seen was the endless ocean that stretched out further than the eye could see. It was beautiful.

And right then, it was only theirs.

Jean only let go of his hand to sit down on the sand and bring his guitar into his lap with a smile. Anticipation filled Armin as he watched Jean tune his instrument, admiring how his hands looked, fingers stretching easily over the frets. He wanted to kiss him again, but he found him tearing up, unable to move or say a word. 

“I wanted to sing something for you,” Jean said. “This… this is my dad’s guitar. I never told anyone I kept it, but… I wanted to play it for you. 

“Are you-” 

“Shh. Let me sing.”

Armin bit his lip and held his breath when the first chords of Stevie Wonder’s _You are the Sunshine of My Life_ began to play, a song Armin heard on the radio before, one he didn’t know Jean liked but suited him so perfectly. It was a love song and its lyrics hit Armin square in the chest when he heard them sung by Jean. His voice, deep yet soft, sang just to him and the ocean. The chords were full and complex and Jean wasn’t perfect at getting them but somehow that made it all more charming. They stared at each other; Armin saw a future in bloom. 

It didn’t feel cold. Winter had passed in the blink of an eye yet Armin wasn’t sure he’d ever felt cold at all. Not when Jean was with him. Not when he smiled. Not when he sang. 

When Jean finished playing even the silence felt like music. It was almost too dark to see but they were both smiling. 

“You really love music so much,” Armin breathed, “don’t you?”

Jean beamed as if that was the last thing he expected to hear. 

“Of course I do,” he smiled, putting his guitar down beside him and shuffling a little closer. Armin held out his hands and Jean took them naturally. “There’s nothing in the world music can’t give to you. It makes me feel like I mean something. With music you can go anywhere without moving an inch or discover loved ones that have moved on… I don’t have enough words to describe it.”

“Jean…” Armin choked out, squeezing his hands as he began to cry again. He didn’t have the words either, so all he could think to do was lean forwards and press their lips together in a kiss that was just as soft as the one they shared before. He sighed gently, feeling like home, like this was just right, like it was all meant to happen this way. Jean pulled back just a fraction, only enough that they were able to look at each other. 

“You know, you’re the only thing that makes me feel like music does,” Jean whispered. He reached up, holding Armin’s face in his hands, and breathed a shaky sigh of relief. “It’s like you’re the most beautiful song in the entire world.”

“Me too,” Armin breathed. “I feel that way about you too. You… you changed my life for the better in every way. I think I’d still be living around my grandfather’s mess if it wasn’t for you. I wouldn’t have music if it wasn’t for you.”

“I’m so proud of you,” Jean told him. “For looking. For telling me. For everything.”

“Will you kiss me again?”

“You never have to ask.”

Jean’s lips were soft but firm against Armin’s - this kiss was deeper than before. At first, they were slow as if still figuring out what to do. Armin had never kissed anyone before, had never felt the urge particularly strong before he met Jean. Now, he never wanted to stop. The heat in his stomach was boiling over, pushing Armin closer to Jean, making him kiss a little harder. He felt drunk like when they’d shared wine on the roof months ago. It was so _right._

They kissed for what felt like hours. Armin felt warm all over, tingling like radio static, out of breath and his heart beating fast as if he’d run for miles. The feeling of Jean’s fingers in his hair, the way Jean gently took Armin’s glasses off his face and set them down on the body of his guitar - it was surreal. Armin realised this was real over and over and over again and it never got any less exciting that Jean loved him back.

Armin didn’t want to leave, but when it got closer to midnight, Jean insisted that they had to go back to the pub and help pack up. Their fingers stayed intertwined as they climbed back over the rockpools. More than once they stopped to kiss out of sight both on the beach and even in the village behind phone-boxes or out of the orange glow of streetlights. Each time felt like the first. 

They only let go of each other’s hands when people came into view once more. Jean sighed like he regretted it, shivering in the cold, but his smile warmed Armin from the inside out. 

“I’m so proud of you,” Jean said again. In the distance, Armin could see Bertholdt leaning against Reiner on a picnic bench outside the pub, head resting on his shoulder. He felt like he knew that love dearly now. 

“I’m proud of you too.”

“By the way… my mum is selling the house.” 

“Wait - what?! Really?” 

“Yeah,” Jean said, stopping to lean against a wall as they talked. He seemed to be watching Bertholdt and Reiner too. Above him, under the moonlight, Armin saw green buds on the branches of the trees. 

“So… you’re moving?” 

“Guess so.”

“Where will you go?” 

“I’m not sure yet.”

“You know you can stay with me until you figure it out…” 

“I was hoping you’d offer.”

“You could have just asked!”

“I know, but it was cuter that you offered,” Jean teased. “So I can come home with you tonight?” 

“Of course you can.”

“Good,” Jean smiled, and he quickly bent down to kiss Armin on the nose while nobody was looking. “Now… let’s go. I think they’re waiting for us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! there's just one chapter left to go, but i'm so happy they finally got to tell each other how they feel :-; please leave me a comment to let me know what you think! love you all!! <3


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two months later, spring is in full bloom.

Jean rode through the woods on his bike with the May sun on his face, surrounded by bright green. Two months had passed since the music night at the pub, since Jean had leaned in to kiss Armin on the beach after learning about his grandfather’s past. They had been the best two months of his entire life, weeks of endless sunshine and happiness. Waking up by Armin’s side every morning, getting to start his day by kissing his cheek - it was absolute bliss. They were perfect together. Jean knew it and Armin knew it too. 

It had been a while since he made this journey on his own. He walked this way with Armin sometimes or sat in the passenger seat as they drove to the village, but it had been months since he made the ride all on his own. His boyfriend was busy at work that morning so Jean had gone to help his mother pack up her house without him. Jean was glad to see that she was doing a lot better now she was finally moving out of that dark, empty house and into a small cottage that sat on a hill near the village. It was small and it suited her, especially as every room wasn’t tainted by loss and bad memories. 

They spent hours carrying boxes of things up the hill between the house and her new home. Jean told her about his life, leaving out some parts, but sharing others. They swapped memories from Jean’s childhood that had gone long forgotten until then. Jean felt fond and warm as he sat on the boat to cross the river back to the city where he now lived. When he rode down its streets Jean was excited to see Armin again and tell him all about the peaceful time he got to spend with his mum. 

Jean enjoyed the sound of the lock clicking open as he got home. Mr Arlert’s house had become Armin’s and then it became theirs. Neither of them wanted Jean to leave and find a place elsewhere, so it was home to them both now, and they were just in the middle of making the changes to reflect that. 

“I’m home!” he yelled, kicking his shoes off when he got inside. 

“Jean!” Armin exclaimed. Jean smiled at the rhythm of his feet on the stairs as he ran down to greet him, a smile that only grew wider when he saw his boyfriend come down wearing paint-stained dungarees and the brightest smile in the world. He held his arms out for a hug that Jean couldn’t resist. “How was it?”

“It was good,” Jean said warmly, holding Armin close to his chest. He smelled like paint. “She’s looking forward to you coming to see when it’s all done.”

“She is?” 

“Yeah. She told me so. You’ll have to come up with me. The view is great.”

“I’d like that a lot. Do you want a hot drink?”

“No, it’s way too warm,” Jean said, kissing Armin on the top of the head before pulling back. “I’ll just have a glass of water and then come up to give you a hand. How’s it going up there?”

“I keep having to move the ladder around everywhere,” Armin sighed. “I hate being short.”

“I like that you’re short, it makes me feel taller,” Jean grinned. 

“You’re tall enough as it is.”

“You love it.”

“...Maybe.”

“Knew it,” Jean laughed. Walking into the kitchen, he poured and downed a glass of water. “It’s getting so warm so fast.”

“Stevie was sitting in the back garden all day. I think he likes the sun.”

“I don’t blame him. Poor thing is probably traumatised after being out in the snow like that.”

“That day we were on the roof? The first time, not the time you fell off.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Jean laughed. “I nearly kissed you that night. You were so cute, looking up at me like that…”

Armin blushed bright red just like he did back then, and Jean couldn’t resist leaning in to kiss him, hands slipping around his waist. 

“I wish you had,” Armin pouted.

“But then we might not have Stevie,” Jean pointed out. He kissed him again, right on the tip of his nose where Armin accidentally got paint on himself. “I’m glad that things turned out the way they did.” 

“I’m happy too,” Armin murmured, and he pulled Jean in for a hug, resting his head against his chest. “I’m really happy.” 

“I’d hope so.” Jean kissed the top of his head and then rested his chin there, closing his eyes. He hummed. “You think we can get this room finished and dinner on the go before the guys come over?”

“Maybe,” Armin replied. “If we work fast.”

“I get too distracted by you.” 

“That’s because you want to kiss me all the time.” 

“Is that so bad?”

“I’m not saying that,” Armin chuckled. “Quite the opposite.” 

“Good,” Jean grinned, pulling back just enough to kiss him on the nose. He never got tired of kissing Armin. A lot of the time he even found himself stopping mid-song just to pick him up and take him upstairs. 

“Last one,” Armin insisted, kissing him on the lips one more time before wiggling out of his grip. Jean followed him upstairs to the master bedroom. For the last few months, they had been sharing Armin’s loft bed - but finally, Armin had made the decision to renovate his grandfather’s bedroom into their own. The room was half blue, half bare where they’d stripped the wallpaper off, waiting to be painted. They chose the colour together over a week ago but only got around to doing it in the last few days. The bed and other furniture were all protected by dust sheets; they had a tendency to be messy, constantly flicking paint at each other and bickering when they should have been working. 

“It looks great so far,” Jean said. The sun was shining in through the open window. Jean slipped his arms around Armin’s waist from behind and rested his chin on the top of his head. He never thought someone like him could enjoy this kind of domesticity. 

“It looks like… ours,” Armin murmured. Jean could tell he was thinking hard; Armin had always struggled to accept that this house was  _ his  _ and not his grandfather’s anymore. 

“It is ours,” Jean assured him. “You don’t feel guilty, do you?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just…”

“What?”

“I just can’t believe I get to have this. I can’t believe I’m so lucky…”

“Well, you are. So you’d better accept it already, and help me paint before Reiner and Bertholdt get here.”

Armin laughed. “Okay, okay.”

* * *

Armin liked painting. With the sun on his face, music playing in the background, and Jean by his side, he couldn’t think of any other way he’d like to spend an afternoon, even with the constant walking up and down the small stepladder he needed to reach the tops of the walls with his roller brush. Back during December, Armin didn’t even have the guts to walk into this room - he felt like an impostor, like a stranger breaking in. But thanks to Jean, he got to start over. He got to take the things that made this place a home and add his own to them. It was once his grandfather’s house - but now, it was theirs. 

When they made the decision to paint the room and change out some of the furniture, Armin was worried it would feel like painting over his grandfather’s history, but once he started it just felt like making history of his own. A history that he hoped he could look back on with Jean one day. It was early, he knew, to hope for such things… but he couldn’t help himself. 

Once the first coat was finished, they had done as much as they could do. It was evening, then, the sun setting over the grey buildings from the window and turning them orange. 

“They’ll be here soon,” he murmured, not moving away from the window, even as Jean hugged him from behind again. “We should probably go and start dinner.”

“Mm, we probably should,” Jean said. 

Neither of them made any move to leave. 

“This is so nice, though,” Armin hummed. 

“We could just get a takeaway.” 

“We  _ could… _ ”

“That’s a yes, isn’t it?”

“It’s a maybe. And only because I want to kiss you more.”

“Oh, who’s greedy now?” Jean teased, but he was gentle as he turned around and leaned down to press their lips together. Armin always felt himself melt a little when Jean was so sweet and tender with him.

“We probably shouldn’t do this in front of the window,” Armin said breathlessly as Jean left a trail of kisses down his jaw and neck. 

“You’re enjoying yourself though,” Jean murmured, his voice low and a little needy. “And I thought about this all day…”

“People are going to see, though.”

“Fine,” Jean chuckled, and without warning, he picked Armin up and slung him over his shoulder. 

“ _ Jean!  _ Put me down! I’m going to fall-”

“You’re fine, I’m strong enough to carry you!”

“What if we fall down the stairs?!”

“We won’t,” Jean laughed, proving it by running down without dropping him. In the living room, he put Armin down on the sofa and barely waited a moment before kissing him again. Armin didn’t have time to be mad - all he wanted to do was kiss Jean for hours as soon as he felt the touch of his lips. Every single time they embraced like this it felt like home. Having Jean in his arms, pressed up close together, getting to feel the weight of him against his body… it never got old or tiring. Armin loved it more and more every time. 

“Jean,” he groaned. Armin knew that they really needed to stop but he didn’t have the willpower. He wanted Jean’s touch all the time, and even though they were free to be affectionate around Reiner and Bertholdt, it never felt as good as when they were alone. 

“Shh, don’t worry about it. Just kiss me,” Jean murmured, holding Armin’s face in his hands. He could do nothing but give in, then, and kissed Jean back with a desire that refused to be held back, moaning softly against his lips, love twisting up inside of him. 

“I love you so much,” he whispered. 

“I love you too,” Jean smiled. “More than anything.”

“Do you love me enough to go and start cooking dinner with me?”

“What about takeaway?” 

“I don’t trust it,” Armin chuckled. “Not after what happened when we ordered that pizza…”

“I’m not going to fall off the roof again,” Jean said, rolling his eyes and laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I think that’s you.”

* * *

Somehow, dinner was in the oven and almost ready when Reiner and Bertholdt arrived. 

“Sorry we’re a bit late,” Reiner said as Armin invited them inside. “Gabi was, uh… she had her friends over.”

“They’ve started a band,” Bertholdt explained. “It was quite the afternoon.”

“Do you need painkillers for a headache?” Jean called from the kitchen. 

“Hey, Jean!” Reiner called back. “I’m good thanks!”

“How was it?” Armin asked. 

“They’re passionate, I’ll give them that.”

“That’s all you need,” Armin smiled. “Passion and a lot of practise.”

“You’re telling me,” Reiner laughed. “It smells great in here.”

“Jean wanted to order takeaway, but once he starts cooking he always outdoes himself. It shouldn’t be too long.”

While they waited for Jean to finish up making dinner, the three of them sat down in the living room to chat. Stevie curled up on Armin’s lap like usual and Armin stroked his soft fur as they talked. 

“How’s the application going, Armin?” Bertholdt asked. Armin smiled shyly and felt touched that his friends remembered. For the past few weeks he’d been fretting over an application to return to university and become qualified to teach. He had been thinking about it for a long time, but after discovering his grandfather’s deepest secrets, Armin was sure that he wanted to follow in the man’s footsteps. He wasn’t sure if being a History teacher would have the same impact, but it was Armin’s goal to make sure the kids he taught had someone passionate in their lives. Armin learned first-hand from Jean that passion was life changing, that it could bring colour wherever it went. 

“It’s going well,” Armin smiled. “I’ve not got much left to do and the deadline is still a few weeks away. Honestly… I’m really excited.”

“That’s how I felt when I got the job at the bakery,” Bertholdt smiled back just as warmly. “A change of pace can be the best thing sometimes. And I still really love working there.”

“I love that he works there, too,” Reiner said. “He’s always bringing home the pastries they didn’t sell that day.”

“You’ve never offered me any!” Jean yelled from the kitchen. 

“Stop listening to our conversation, weirdo!” Reiner called right back. 

“I’ll stop by after a shift sometime,” Bertholdt promised. As Jean yelled something unintelligible, he and Armin rolled their eyes. “But it really is great that you’re going back to uni. You’ll be a great teacher. It’s in your blood.”

“He’s right,” Reiner said. “There’s no denying that Mr Arlert was the best teacher I ever had.”

“Me too,” Bertholdt said. “To me, it’s… well, he was a complicated man. But he cared for us. And I think he cared for you, too, Armin.”

Armin bit his lip and felt himself getting a little emotional. He nodded, finally able to agree that there was some connection between the two of them, even though they had never met. Armin felt it through the music he played, especially when he was with his friends, or when he and Jean sat together in the cellar, playing the song they had finished in his grandfather’s stead. 

They sat on cushions and ate around the coffee table while music played in the background. Armin still found the eccentricities of the house charming - he didn’t mind that the dining room had a piano in it instead of a table, or that the cellar wasn’t used for storage but for playing music. Those things didn’t feel strange anymore - they felt like home, and they suited him. This house suited the  _ both _ of them.

“How are things between you two, then?” Jean asked Bertholdt and Reiner between mouthfuls. “Told Gabi yet?”

“We’re doing well,” Bertholdt said. “Reiner was actually planning on telling her soon.”

“I just have to work out exactly how to say it. She’s a smart kid. She probably already knows. Even if she thinks I don’t notice her with her little boyfriend.”

“Falco?” Jean laughed. 

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“He always used to come into the shop with her.”

“He’s started learning guitar to join their band. He’s got it pretty bad for her, right?” 

“Definitely.”

“Reminds me of how you used to act around Armin,” Reiner teased, leaning over the table to grin at Jean. 

“Fuck off,” Jean grumbled, but Armin was intruiged.

“What do you mean?” he asked. 

“You didn’t notice?” Reiner said. “He was always trying to show off for you.”

“No I wasn’t!” Jean exclaimed. “Shut up, all of you.”

“Aww,” Reiner pressed. “Now he’s embarrassed.”

“Leave it, Reiner,” Bertholdt said, but he was chuckling. “Don’t be mean.”

“You wanted to impress me?” Armin asked quietly, bumping up against Jean’s side. 

“Maybe a little bit…” 

“You definitely did. You still do.” 

“Thanks.”

“How about you guys, though?” Reiner asked. “How are you doing?”

“Better than ever,” Jean grinned. “It’s all been great with us.” 

“Jean and I have been painting my grandfather’s old room,” Armin said. “We wanted to make it feel more like ours.”

“I love that,” Bertholdt smiled. “You deserve to make this place your own.”

When their plates were all cleared and their stomachs were full the four of them lay around for a little while longer, waiting for their food to settle before heading down to the cellar. Jean had been writing music, songs of his own from scratch. Armin listened to him hum the melodies in the dark as they lay curled up together in bed, heard him experimenting with lyrics as he sang in the shower, saw the sheets of scrap paper where he scribbled down ideas. He loved coming home to Jean’s new ideas. Sometimes they wrote together, and Armin had a few ideas of his own that he messed around with while Jean was at work, but nothing quite compared to the smile Jean got on his face when he came up with something amazing.

Armin never got tired of playing with the three of them. He loved how he improved little by little, and how everyone else did, too. The way their sound bounced off the walls, the way Armin could feel the bass in his chest… it was always exhilarating, always exciting, always magical.

It was a joy he discovered on his own when he was a small child, back when he’d sneak into the music room to teach himself the piano all alone. It was in his blood, he supposed, loving music - something that had always been there, but lay dormant as he got older and let his insecurities get the better of him. Until he met Jean.

Armin looked over at his boyfriend as he sang into the mic, his saxophone put aside for the night. His lyrics were a little rough around the edges, but they had charm, much like Jean himself. Armin wondered what his life would be like if Jean hadn’t walked through the door unannounced that winter. What would have happened if Armin turned him away right then and there? He didn’t like the idea… those cold months would have passed by much more slowly without Jean there to bring him warmth and show him the joy of music. He wasn’t even sure he would ever have had the courage to sort through his grandfather’s things and discover his past without Jean there to tell the stories behind his belongings.

Everything Armin had right here was precious to him. Music, his friends, his home, his cat… his lover. Things he never had before. Things he never thought he  _ needed _ . But the more Armin thought about it, the more he realised that his life from before had been grey and lonely. He saw colour everywhere now, and not just because it was spring. 

It was all because of Jean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's over! :-; 
> 
> I've had an absolute blast writing this story. Music means a lot to me - it shaped my life and gave me so much to be grateful for. To be able to write a story about it feels wonderful. Thank you all for reading this fic, and thank you so much to my friends who helped me every single step of the way! Thank you for leaving kudos and commenting, too! Now it's over, I'd love more than ever to hear what you think. Thank you all so much. As always, you can find me on twitter @vidnyia ! It's pretty much just a jearmin account, and I post ideas and snippets of things I'm working on there sometimes. Stay tuned, I have some exciting things planned :) 
> 
> Love you all!!   
> -Vidi <3


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